Words Written, Unspoken
by o0-TheMilkyBarKid-0o
Summary: A series of letters with words never said. If he'd had the courage, he would have told her years ago in the Tower; but somehow it was easier to write it down on paper, get it out into open and brace himself in the coming weeks for her reply.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** Hello friends! It has been a while since I really updated anything. My obsessions change so frequently, but when they do, boy do I get OBSESSED. So I have started a new fic.

Just to give you a bit of back-story on this one - I played as a male Qunari Inquisitor, so I wanted to write something about the Amell Warden Commander since she occasionally comes up in conversation with Cullen and other characters. I pictured them exchanging formal letters for aid, until eventually it descends into more personal letters about things they wanted to say years ago, but never get the chance to.

I have an M rating for this, but please note that there will be rare moments for it. The rating is there as a warning for intimate feelings and the like, I haven't decided if I should include something a bit more explicit.

* * *

The evening light pooled on the War Table; Cullen shifted his edicts to one side and grumbled, exhausted by the day. The clutter on the map was evident enough that their growing forces would quickly become a growing problem if they didn't manage it correctly; that meant more time in the War Room, more time debating, managing, signing and stamping, agreeing and disagreeing.

"With the Grey Wardens allied with us, we will need to inform the Commander of these recent developments," Leliana said, brandishing the letter at him, it's thin red wax seal bearing the Grey Warden insignia broken by a jagged line, "I'll need you to contact her, asking for a formal agreement of her support. Even if her soldiers agree to our terms, it would be better to have it in writing to avoid an argument later. It would also help if you could request a thorough breakdown of agreed terms, so we know exactly what we are getting when we take the Warden's aid."

Cullen took the letter solemnly, grasping the thick parchment between his thumb and palm, knowing it was the one piece of information about The Warden Commander they had, and nothing else but the vague words of a few of her closest.

Much had changed since Alistair had given them an idea of her whereabouts; he hoped at least _that _hadn't changed much since she sent her first correspondence, otherwise his letter would probably go unanswered.

They broke, puffing out candles and shuffling wearily out into the castle halls, Josephine with her towering stack of scrolls - he with his lists, rotas and letters to peruse before bed. Leliana lagged behind to secure the doors, waving goodnight to him as she swept by.

As he dumped the ever-growing pile of papers onto his desk, he cracked his neck, his muscles aching, head swimming, but he would get through the mess on the table before eventually he climbed up the ladder to his chambers. It was easier to sleep that way, occasionally it staved off the night terrors.

The candles burned low in their holders by the time he finally got around to writing the letter to the Warden Commander; he tried to pretend not to notice that he left it until the very last, even going so far as to sort out the rotas for the next month – a job he specifically appointed to Rylen because of how mind-numbingly boring Cullen found it – until eventually that parchment was the only thing sitting innocently on his desk, embossed with that griffon-filled crest.

Cullen hesitated – briefly – before taking the letter and flipping it open, leaning back in his chair, squinting through weary eyes to read the curt, purposeful rejection for help, written in unfussy, tidy handwriting. Her objective – as her whereabouts – were equally as vague and nonchalant; the focus instead on reassurance that she was in good health, that she wished she could return to offer more information on Corypheus, and that instead she sent some gifts – more likely a peace offering – for the Inquisitor's use. It was only after seeing her vow to end the Calling and her intricate signature did the Commander realise that his hands were shaking and his face was, for all intents and purposes, _flaming_ like a choir-boy who just got a look down a lay-sister's gowns.

_Maker_ he thought he was over this. Surely ten years was a long enough time to get over what was a very youthful, _very_ naïve crush.

A very, _very_ long time ago.

And yet... yet he sat there with his blushing cheeks and his frown like the letter had wronged him in a way, and felt like he was still that young man, shakily handing a dropped scroll to the young, silvery-haired Mage outside the library, looking up with glittering, unfathomably deep, inky blue eyes so indescribably beautiful that the words in his mouth turned to garbled nonsense.

"_Th-this... I-I... found it. It's yours I think - I-I mean, it has your name on it- not-not that I read it or anything! It's just that I had to make sure it was, you know, before I..."_

_**Before I make an even bigger fool of myself**__, the calm voice in his head chided. Mage Amell, so young and sweet, gently took the scroll from his outstretched grip - the gauntlet looked hilariously large in comparison to her small hand – and thanked him, quietly, before returning to her studies in the expansive hall of the library._

He _had_ read it. It was a long, complex series of notes and diagrams – some assignment or other, with that intricate signature at the bottom. He spent more time observing her work than he would later admit, equal parts fascinated by the magic and by the author.

She had been so young then, only fourteen, and he was only fresh from White Spire at the tender age of twenty-two. The only contact he had with women were the lay-sisters and raw recruits, training for their Templar duties. But Mage Amell had this youthful softness and, despite her young age, an air of maturity and intelligence that he'd never encountered before. That along with her being a Mage only added to her mysterious aura.

When he thought of Mage Amell now, it was always that same embarrassing memory of his foolish attempt at speaking to her. Those eyes just... turned the words in his mouth to cake; a sodden, crumbling mess. Even in his thirties, he could still feel his tongue sticking to his palate in the effort to seem sophisticated and interesting around someone so... _powerful_. So haunting and smart.

Rubbing his eyes, Cullen dismissed the memory and flattened out the parchment, pulling a thick sheaf of vellum out of his desk-drawer and licking the tip of his quill before dipping it in the little glass pot of ink. Although the action of the ritual came fluidly to him, actioning the _letter_ was something else entirely. Cullen found, when writing what should have been a formal letter seeking confirmation of aid to Constance Amell, Ferelden Commander of the Grey, Hero of Ferelden, Champion of Redcliffe, Arl of Amaranthine and Vanquisher of the Fifth Blight, his quill paused to the point where the ink on the tip dropped and smudged everywhere.

"Oh Maker's _balls_," he swore under his breath, tossing the page aside and selecting another sheet with an irritated flourish. Josephine would murder him if she found him wasting the good vellum in such a manner – he made a note in-aside to burn that particular sheet lest she find it and unleash her Antivan wrath upon him.

Still... how did one write to the Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey, Hero of Ferelden, etcetera, etcetera...? Cullen found himself at a total loss, stuck, stuttering like all those years ago holed up in the Ferelden Circle in front of the woman who made his cheeks burn hot. His cheeks were burning now in fact; he rubbed them vigorously after shoving the quill into the ink pot in irritation. He was not that man anymore and it was foolish to think otherwise.

He supposed he was just... scared of writing something that sounded... _unworthy_.

Constance Amell was the kind of Mage that all Mages in the Circle dreamed of being; focused, intelligent, forward-thinking, even revolutionary from a young age. Magic came easily to her and already by her early teens she was making ripples in the magical community with her skills. Then she was recruited in the Wardens, has since earned herself an impressive string of titles, the respect and regard of powerful warriors and Wardens, the love and worship of a nation-

… Next to all that, he was just one _man_.

One man who couldn't look her in the eye without falling all over himself.

Sighing deeply through his nose, Cullen pushed the thoughts away again, more firmly this time, and picked up the quill with a steadier grip, breathing deeply.

Yes, he was just one man, and he was given a task – to request a formal confirmation of aid from the Wardens and their absentee Commander. He needed it because he needed to absolve the Wardens loyal to the Inquisition and allow them, without fear of reprisal, into their ranks. Only then would they, and by proxy he, be able to sleep easier knowing that here would be no argument against the Inquisitions' use of their abilities and manpower, and even though their Commander was not present, that their orders could be issued via the Inquisition provided their goals coincided.

Big words... _for just one man_.

So Cullen began to write, not hastily or harshly or for fear of an emotional outburst, but because people were depending on him, and he wanted to make their work a little easier, their sleep a little more restful, even if that meant he didn't get much himself.

Signing it, sanding it and waiting a moment for the ink to dry, he looked into the lights of the low-burning candles and saw the sky outside the window start to turn the barest shade of blue. It was nearing dawn – he'd worked through the night, _again_.

With a wide, weary yawn, he shook the sand from the page and folded it, pouring a drop of sealing wax where the lip of the paper met the side, stamping down the Inquisition insignia, formally sealing it for Constance Amell's perusal only. That lone eye glared up at him – he wondered briefly how much Mage Amell knew of the Inquisition...

Cullen stood on shaking legs; when he was exhausted, the shakes just got that little bit worse – and made his way up to his quarters. All things considered, he thought as he divested his armour, he was happy he finished the work, even the rotas he so despised, if it meant that some soldier down the line was given an extra few minutes to themselves. He preferred to organise all of it himself, not only because it helped put him to sleep, but because it took the load from someone else.

Climbing into bed, he knew he would only get a few solid hours – if by solid, he meant _nightmarish_ – of sleep before first light, and as his eyes fluttered closed at last, he could still distinctly remember how he'd asked young Mage Amell if she need to talk – _about anything_ – with him, _him specifically_, and fell into a blushing sleep with his hand over his eyes.

* * *

_Warden Commander Amell,_

_We have received your gifts to the Inquisitor with much regard,_

_Circumstances have changed since your last correspondence. Upon hearing of your whereabouts from Warden Alistair, our Inquisitor travelled with him and the Champion of Kirkwall to the Western Approach to engage in conflict at Adamant Fortress. I do not know of how much you are aware of, but Warden Commander Clarel has died, along with many of the Wardens loyal to her, after a Venatori agent was discovered spreading Blood-Magic and Demon summoning among their ranks._

_Many of the Orlesian Wardens are now dead, including their Commander. The Champion of Kirkwall, Ulysses Hawke, also died in the battle on Adamant. Those remaining have pledged their allegiance to the Inquisition, allowing them to aid in in the fight against Corypheus._

_It has become apparent over the recent weeks that some of these Wardens are from the Ferelden branch, directly under your command. I am writing to request formal confirmation that any Ferelden Wardens wishing to join the Inquisition's forces in the fight against Corypheus be allowed to; open terms pending between the Ferelden Wardens and the Inquisition._

_It is understood that, as Corypheus is leading Darkspawn and is in command of an Archdemon, many of the Wardens among our ranks have expressed interest in defeating him._

_Awaiting your response,_

_Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford_

_Skyhold Inquisition Commander of Forces_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading! Drop me a line, yeah?


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes:** On to the second chapter. I have most of this written already, I'm just editing as I go. I tend to do very little editing unless I need to make a drastic change to the story. I can feel myself really rambling on when I'm unsure of what to write or how to make sentences flow together.

Then I go back and don't want to get rid of the rambling. Funny, that. The mind goes to strange places when it doesn't have a specific direction.

There is a lot of lore related diatribe in this chapter, specifically Warden related lore. I did as much research as I could, so apologies in advance if I got some of it wrong.

* * *

Leliana was smiling at him with that insufferably knowing smile.

It continued well into the meeting and even after, when she entered his office like a cool breeze on a summers' day, her footsteps eerily quiet on the hardwood floors. She stepped over the threshold, a raven perched obediently on her forearm, her other arm suspiciously behind her back – he wondered briefly if he'd said something untoward to Josephine and now Leliana was here to take a few of his fingers – and stood in front of him with smirk.

That smirk that said, always said, that she knew something he didn't. _Of course you do, you're the Spymaster, for Andraste's sake! _

"I received a letter this morning," she said.

Cullen was not going to play her little game. He'd wondered if perhaps he could introduce her to his sister, Mia, and maybe their equal levels of snark could cancel each other out, but didn't for fear it would simply double in size; that they would somehow join forces to make his day just that bit more _difficult and irritating_.

"Oh really," he returned to his rosters, uninterested, "I presume this letter must have some significance, if you felt it was in your interest to come down from your perch-"

"_Tower_. And yes, it is. Quite significant," her voice dropped lower as she uncoiled her arm from behind her back, holding the letter between her fingers, in the air, away from him, "So significant in fact, that I opened it without meaning to. So excited I was to read it, that I didn't realize it wasn't even addressed to me."

_Ah_. He would have to have a chat with his messenger soon. She'd been spending far too much time aiding Sera with her "pranks" and taking Cole's gibberish notes that her work was starting to slip. Still... it was unlike Leliana to be upset by such a minor slip-up, especially one by a messenger. If it were a personal mistake she would have plenty of clause to remind him of it, but that wasn't so. So what was she doing in his office?

Cullen rubbed the back of is neck, sighing, "My apologies. I'll talk with my messenger about it,"

That left plenty of room for her to put the letter down and leave, yet she didn't. She slowly, dramatically brought her arm down, holding the letter out to him, just _so_ out of his reach that he had to bend forward over the desk a little to take it from her, and _oh_ how her smirk grew. Cullen resisted the urge to snatch it out of her hands in impatience.

He turned the parchment over, shrugging, until he could see the broken seal-

Embossed with the Grey Warden insignia.

… He completely forgot he sent a letter to Warden Commander Amell. That was _weeks_ ago. He'd been appointing Wardens left, right and centre and had barely given a thought to what her reply could be. Maker, what if she refused any terms at all? He'd have to go back and fix all of the rotas _again_.

"What does it say?" He asked, acutely aware that his cheeks had started to grow hot again with the images of the young Mage fresh in his memory like it was barely a day, let alone a decade ago. "Don't tell me this is a refusal,"

"Not at all," the Spymaster replied easily, "The Warden Commander is not so unreasonable to go against the collective wishes of the men under her command,"

Relief washed over him like a wave; he didn't have to change the rotas, thankfully. He doubted Rylen's patience would hold for much longer, especially with the recruits Cullen was sending his way to hold the areas around Emprise du Lion. A bold move, but it would help them gain the raw experience they needed and the area was still devastated by the Red Templar's presence; Rylen wouldn't be happy but it couldn't be helped, and now with the Wardens _officially_ on their side, it would hopefully make things move that much smoother.

That didn't explain why Leliana was smirking at him like the cat that swallowed the canary, however...

"I... I am not sure why you are looking at me like that," he finally admitted, "is there something more to this that I'm missing?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps _not_. I shall simply make sure that any further correspondence from the Wardens will be specifically sent to you, yes? After all, this letter was addressed for _you_,"

Cullen frowned as the Spymaster turned on her heel and left with more questions unanswered, hanging in the air like a thick smoke. What was she _on about_...?

The minor - though he would never acknowledge that it was indeed _major -_ bubble of excitement that formed in the pit of his stomach was left unheeded when he rolled his eyes and pushed the letter to the side of his desk, telling himself that the confirmation of the Wardens alliance was all he needed to know, and Leliana, were she more _professional_, should have approached him about it at the War Table and not in such a personal manner. _Honestly_.

Still... her tone suggested that the letter was for him specifically, and it did beg the question as to the _contents_ of the letter-

Cullen busily tasked himself with the work in front of him, pointedly ignoring the thick parchment beside the stack of scrolls with it's torn seal. It's torn _Warden_ seal. He'd seen it a hundred, perhaps even a thousand times over since their tentative alliance; plastered on armour, banners, even a few unseemly tattoos in unmentionable places. Yet this particular one wasn't like those; it roared _official_ in an unspoken language, and he really ought to be reading it...

He really ought to be reading it like a sensible adult, not a blushing, prepubescent farm boy who just got a love letter from the village girl.

Cullen snatched the letter of the desk, nearly crumpling it in his fist in annoyance. What could possibly be written there that was so personal that Leliana saw fit to tease him about it?

He unfurled the parchment, recognising Amell's neat, unfussy handwriting. It was a long letter; from what he could see with a glance, it was mostly the terms of an alliance with the Ferelden Wardens. He sneered, at first, thinking Leliana was quite the fool...

* * *

_Commander Cullen, _

_Regarding our previous correspondence, please accept the Ferelden Wardens of the Grey as allies in the battle against Corypheus and all related matters to which the Inquisition deem appropriate for the Wardens' assistance. _

_However, there are some Warden related matters which must be taken into account before this alliance is to become final. All Wardens are subject to the vows they have taken, and must adhere to the laws governing our Order, please take this into consideration before agreeing to this alliance. _

_Warden Alistair has contacted to inform me of the situation at hand. I appreciate the time you took to inform me of Clarel's demise. I also extend my deepest gratitude to your Inquisitor and your soldiers for protecting him in your attack on Adamant; Alistair is a close friend and was integral to the destruction of the Archdemon during the Fifth Blight. Ulysses Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, will be renowned as a Hero among our ranks for his staunch sacrifice._

_Alistair has also informed me that many of the Wardens among our ranks have expressed interest in allying with the Inquisition - understandable, considering the threat that Corypheus poses._

_Please note that the following must be understood before entering into an alliance with Wardens of the Grey:_

_\- In the event of a Blight, all Wardens are committed to taking up arms to battling the Darkspawn and the Archdemon leading them. Should this become apparent at any point during their alliance with the Inquisition, they are to take up arms without delay, and must not be stopped by any of your forces. _

_\- Regarding older Wardens, any Warden close to/ or feeling the effects of/ their Calling can leave the service of the Inquisition to pursue battle in the Deep Roads or their choice of arena, until they are dead. (it is understood that the Calling that Corypheus commands is a false one)_

_\- In the event of a fellow Inquisition soldier falling to the effects of/becoming Blighted, all Wardens are charged with the task of either ending their lives to prevent the spread of the illness or taking them to higher-ranking Wardens to offer them the Joining (to be welcomed into the Warden Ranks). Should any officer of the Inquisition interfere, they are to be reminded that all Wardens can invoke their Right of Conscription. _

_\- At any point, without argument and without warning, all Wardens can be called to Weisshaupt to convene, and must not be delayed._

_\- All Wardens are charged with keeping their vows of secrecy to the Wardens of the Grey, and are not to be questioned on Warden related matters, subjects or current objectives._

_Please note that, due to the tumultuous times ahead, although all Wardens are granted Rights of Conscription, they have been given specific orders not to conscript within the Inquisition ranks unless under extremely exceptional circumstances, as it would be considered ill-fitting for an alliance which serves a grander purpose. _

_I hope you find these terms agreeable. If you have any questions, feel free to contact Warden Alistair at Weisshaupt, or Warden Nathaniel and Warden Oghren at Vigil's Keep in Amaranthine. I have forwarded copies of these terms to them for their perusal, making sure they are all aware of the situation. _

_Might I also be so bold as to enquire; Commander Cullen of the Inquisition. Is this the same Cullen who served as a Templar in the Ferelden Circle of Magi some years ago? I am aware of the slim possibility, but I thought it fit to ask. _

_Give my regards to the Inquisitor, and please let him know that should I encounter anything else that would be helpful on my travels, I will send it directly. _

_Kind Regards, _

_Constance Amell_

_Ferelden Warden Commander of the Grey_

* * *

For the first time in what seemed like the longest time, Cullen couldn't think. His mind had gone blissfully, wonderfully quiet. The last coherent thought he had was after he read the line – _Is this the same Cullen...?_ \- to which his mind whispered a simple - _She remembers me -_ and then nothing at all. The rest of the letter could have declared war on Orlais for all he knew, because he admittedly didn't even read it.

_She remembers me. _

It wasn't such a surprising thought, after all, he was in a terribly sorry state the last time they met, when the Ferelden Circle tower fell to Abominations and he'd been trapped in that cage for what felt like years, starving, dehydrated, exhausted. Not the best thing to be remembered by, but then he supposed, the Circle was her home too, and the memory of it being destroyed was probably stronger than the ones of her... _incarceration_.

Honestly, he wasn't sure what to reply with. A simple _Yes_ would probably suffice, but was it even in his best interest to reply? What purpose would it even serve? It wasn't that she **needed** to know if he was the same man or not, in fact it would probably be a waste of time to focus on such a simple question in light of the Ferelden Wardens of the Grey agreeing to join their ranks in closing the Breach and fighting Corypheus. _That_ was the part he should be focusing on.

_Still... She remembers me_. It was a strange flattery.

With his mind still blank and raw and strange, he put the letter to the side again, feeling like he better understood Leliana's intentions now that the warmth had returned to the high cut of his cheekbones – or perhaps she was jealous that someone she was once so close to had not thought to address the letter to her, instead – as he struggled to find the right words to put pen to paper.

_Yes we accept the alliance and yes I am that very man_ was the rough gist of what he wanted to say and was sorely tempted to just write that and be done with it so he could think a little more clearly about his tasks at hand, but he doubted a page with a single written line on it would be very gracious... then again, why was he even concerning himself with what she thought? As the Commander of Forces, he should be concerning himself with the positioning of the Inquisition in the more tentative parts of Orlais, not swooning over a silly question from a woman he hasn't seen in ten years!

Something simple, prompt and to the point. That was what he needed to reply with. Her terms regarding the Wardens' oaths were fine and nothing unexpected; he would make his Captains and Lieutenants aware of them over the next few days. As for her question, he would answer it simply, but not harshly, especially not when she offered the assistance of the Wardens so readily.

Hours later, when he had a moment to really think about how he wanted to reply, Cullen sat down by candle-light to compose his second letter to Warden Commander Amell. It took a few drafts and more frustration than he would readily admit, but when he finally poured the sealing wax onto the vellum, a grave nervousness overcame him that he wished had more to do with the alliance, and less with the thought of Warden Amell thinking him quite the fool.

* * *

_Warden Commander Amell, _

_On behalf on the Inquisition, I am grateful that you have taken the time to aid us in this struggle. We will not squander this alliance; I can assure you that your soldiers will be put to good use against Corypheus's forces. _

_As for your terms, we are well aware of the Warden's oaths to battling Darkspawn and ending the Blights; we will not attempt to stop them should they wish to take up arms against their foes or deal with their Calling. We also appreciate that you have ordered them not to conscript warriors within our ranks. _

_We accept your terms and are more than happy to facilitate the Wardens of Ferelden, should they so wish to join our ranks, until such a time that they can return to their former duties. _

_To answer your question; yes, I was formerly a Templar in the Ferelden Circle of Magi. I attended your Harrowing shortly before you were conscripted into the Grey Wardens. I remember you, Mage Amell. _

_We would appreciate if you could send a formal confirmation of this alliance in due time. Many Wardens have joined our ranks and I would rather not hamper their duties any further. _

_Regards,_

_Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford_

_Skyhold Inquisition Commander of Forces_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thank you for reading! I will update fairly soon, just cleaning up the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes:** And on to Chapter 3! I just want to say thanks for the faves, follows and reviews. I will be putting this up on AO3 too, since it seems there's been kind of a mass exodus there, and their rules around explicit content are a lot more lenient.

**Warnings:** Mentions of a sexual nature

* * *

Truth be told, the day that Cullen sent his short reply to the Warden Commander, he wasn't expecting a letter in response. The moment he handed it to his messenger, he was entirely certain that he'd been far too dismissive and curt, cutting the written conversation short and he was equal parts happy and frustrated with the notion.

Cullen was sure she wouldn't send anything else – why would she? She was West somewhere, busy by the sound of what Warden Alistair told them, and with the way he'd worded his previous letter, he wasn't expecting any sort of continuation other than her formal agreement of the terms of the Warden's aid.

So when a Ferelden Warden from their ranks entered his office one morning with a thick, twine-bound letter in his hand embossed with the Grey Warden insignia, the former Knight-Commander looked at him like he'd gone completely mad.

The Warden passed him the letter, saluted and bowed, his winged helm cutting a dangerous path through the air on his way down before departing his office without a word. Cullen stared down at the wax symbol holding the twine to the thick parchment before pulling the knot on the string free to open it up. The thickness suggested it was a signed and stamped contract and it appeared to be just that as he tore through the seal, noticing the blue Warden stamp on the bottom left corner of the first page.

And as he opened it, a neatly folded sheaf of pages fell out from the middle of the fold and onto his desk.

It was smaller than the contract and sealed with wax, but not stamped. Cullen picked the curious letter up and turned it over to see, in Mage Amell's neat handwriting-

_Cullen_

Just that. Just his first name across the middle of the parchment with thin loops through the Ls.

Mesmerized, he dropped the contract to his desk without a second thought and turned the letter back over, pushing his thumb underneath the wax and pulling the folds open. A sweet, boyish excitement filled his stomach; he didn't even notice the way his jaw came loose and his mouth had become slightly agape. What did it say? Why was it addressed just for him?

… Was she angry?

_That_ gave him pause. The excitement immediately fled in the wake of terror and, despite having not even read the letter yet, disappointment. The last time she saw him he'd begged her to kill all of her friends in the Harrowing Chamber... told her that her compassion had brought doom on them all.

He deserved nothing less than her rage.

Suddenly he didn't want to read it; surely it contained a strongly worded – and entirely justified – explanation of why she hated him, in what manner she would like to see his head on a pike, perhaps even a detailed description of his gruesome demise by her own hands should they ever cross paths again. About how their arrangement between the Wardens and the Inquisition would not stop her from hating every fibre of his being. It was then that he began to notice how he'd tightly set his jaw, how his hands had begun to shake just that little bit. It was no more than he deserved; Cullen unfurled the letter and braced himself.

* * *

_Cullen, _

_It has to be more than ten years since my Harrowing, I am amazed you remember me. _

_I heard a rumour some time ago that you were leading the Inquisition's forces but I was not so willing to trust the information, hence why I asked you. It is good to hear that you have moved on since the events at the Ferelden Circle tower. I have not been in contact with as many former Mages and Templars from the Ferelden Circle as I would have liked. _

_So many of them aided us in the battle against the Archdemon during the Fifth Blight. I occasionally wonder if many of them are still in the Circle, although, with the recent rebellion I highly doubt my queries would get an answer. I heard news that First Enchanter Irving was at the Conclave; I assume, since the story read that the only survivor of the explosion was indeed The Inquisitor, that Irving met his end in the explosion. _

_I would like to hold a Vigil for him when this is all over. Irving was my mentor for many years. I would not be as capable a Mage as I am now without him. _

_Regardless, I always keep my ears open to hearing about life after the Circle and am overjoyed to learn that you now lead the forces of the Inquisition. Alistair has informed me of your extensive military prowess; he seemed rather impressed. I do hope he wasn't too much trouble on his visit to Skyhold; he does have a tendency to make rather stupid and inappropriate jokes at inopportune moments... _

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. Apologies for the spontaneity of my writing, but the Circle was the only home I knew, and to hear about the lives of its' former residents feels familiar._

_Regards,_

_\- Constance Amell_

* * *

It was a while before Cullen moved at all. He had braced himself against the desk with his thighs, waiting for the inevitable diatribe of rage and found it... completely lacking. He had to read the letter a few times over just to be sure, just to process all the information given to be certain that there wasn't some hidden agenda behind it all.

… _but the Circle was the only home I knew, and to hear about the lives of its' former residents feels familiar..._

Amell didn't hate him. Far from it.

Cullen did not know what to make of that. It was only when Rylen entered his office that he looked up from the parchment in his hands, but didn't put it down or let it go, he was just sort of holding it in the air like it was some foreign, interesting thing he found; a rare insect or particularly interesting metal perhaps...

"Sir, I have a report from Emprise du Lion," Rylen stood to attention, but Cullen struggled to find any sort of word of acknowledgement to answer with. _She didn't hate him, she didn't..._

"... Sir...?" The Capitan stepped forward slightly but Cullen waved him off, shaking his head.

"Sorry... I'm... I'm not myself today," he said, waving the letter around, not really able to let go of it, "what were you saying?"

Rylen gave him this... _look_. It was the look he got whenever the Capitan side-eyed him when his jaw was tightly wound and his muscles ached and his head was pounding from the withdrawls. There were a small, shameful handful of times when Cullen had forgotten what he was saying mid-sentence, or misplaced someone's name and Rylen gave him that look that said he knew, deep down somewhere, that something was wrong.

The Captain wasn't a stupid man. Even if Cullen didn't outwardly show his suffering, Rylen could still pick up on the nuances that the other soldiers didn't see; eventually he would put two and two together, or perhaps even approach Cassandra or the Inquisitor if he felt Cullen was in danger-

But it _wasn't_ one of those times. It wasn't withdrawl, it was-

"I have a report from Emprise du Lion, sir," he said reproachfully, eyeing the paper in Cullen's hand, and then his eyes fixed on the thick contract on the desk, "Pardon, sir, but is this the Warden's contract?"

"I... yes," Cullen replied, shaking his head to try to regain his lost composure, "it arrived this morning. The alliance is now official; we are to uphold the terms set by the Ferelden Warden Commander for as long as we have the Wardens allied with us,"

Rylen seemed to relax after Cullen easily formed the sentence and smiled, "This is good news. The Warden Mage that you posted with me, Tanner, I think his name was... He is very impressive; highly skilled and more approachable than the average Mage. He'll be an excellent asset on the front-line."

"Good. He seemed the decent sort. Now, what's your report?"

As the Capitan relayed his report on the circumstances around Sahrnia, Cullen listened with as much interest as he could afford. In the back of his mind, the same chant continued and he had to physically restrain himself from re-reading the letter again by crushing it under his palm. _She doesn't hate me. She remembers me. She's not angry. Maker, I don't deserve this. _Rylen finished after a few questions and Cullen sent the Captain on his way. So much to do, he shouldn't be focusing on such a trivial little thing.

The Commander tried to ignore the blossoming hope in his chest, he really did, tried to ignore the burn in his cheeks that lasted for the whole day as his mind raced excitedly through the prospect of sending her a reply, of maybe even receiving another back. It stayed with him through the morning reports, a meeting in the War Room, even at first and second bell.

At the first chance he got, when it became apparent that no one else required his attention for the evening, he locked the doors to his office, stripped his gloves off, picked up the letter with his name written so neatly on the front and examined it again, for what had to have been the fourth or fifth time that day. It felt like he was doing something incredibly wrong as the bolt on the last door slid shut; although he knew if Leliana or Josephine found out, they would have a field day and he would never have the courage to write back. His heart fluttered lightly in his chest, and though he was loathe to admit it, there was something so undeniably flattering about receiving a letter from the Warden Commander; the chatty tone of her writing and the content of her letter suggested a... _familiarity_, and against his better judgement, he was all too willing to take it.

Even though the Maker knew he did nothing to deserve it.

He had so many questions. Why was she writing? Why was she writing to _him_, specifically? Why was she writing to him specifically and not, say, Leliana, with whom she shared a deep rapport?

And then more about the content of her letter. Did she miss the Circle? Did Irving's death upset her greatly? Was there anyone else from the Circle she was previously in contact with? Did Warden Alistair's sense of humour get her in to trouble before? Is that why she had such a chastising tone?

Cullen reached for his quill and vellum; he would write a reply before bed, something quick and simple... or maybe something longer and a bit more personal? He didn't want to sound too eager... but then perhaps he shouldn't be writing at all...? Or perhaps he should get it out of the way before someone decided to pay him a visit. It wasn't often that he was given emergency reports in the middle of the night, but it happened.

Sometimes the Inquisitor or Varric or Dorian would drop by to talk or invite him to play cards or chess in the late evenings if he was awake, he just couldn't risk one of them barging in and interrupting him, or worse, potentially seeing the letter from the Commander.

It was like living with his older sisters all over again.

The feather of the quill bounced for a moment before he caught it between his teeth; Cullen chewed it as he thought about what to write, a wave of nervousness overcoming him.

"_You can talk to me any time," he said, relishing the conviction that came to his voice, brought out somewhat by her startling bravery and grace earlier in the Harrowing Chamber. She was... amazing. Truly blessed by the Maker himself. _

_Inky blue eyes gazed up bashfully under silvery-white eyelashes. That Mage who followed her everywhere – Jowan, he was sure his name was – sniggered behind her and elbowed her in the back._

"_I... I will do that. Thank you," she said, the well-bred lilt in her voice was evident from years of being raised in the Circle. She looked away quickly, clutching the book to her chest and continued on her way down the hall, Jowan following behind her, whispering something to her that made a frustrated twist of jealousy turn in his gut. _

Cullen wondered if she still talked to Jowan... if she even knew where he was after his escape from the Circle more than a decade ago. He didn't dare ask; after Jowan's gruesome display of blood magic and her subsequent horror, then immediate conscription into the Wardens, he didn't want to bring up any unpleasant memories. He remembered that look on her face with startling clarity; there was a streak of Jowan's blood slashed down from her forehead to her chin and down her robes, one of her eyes had twisted shut where it had splashed in, and her jaw hung open, horrified and betrayed.

Until she saved him at the Circle, he was sure that was the last time he would ever see her. He begged Knight Commander Greagoir to at least let him escort her out of the tower, but the Knight-Commander wouldn't acquiesce. The Warden Duncan took the job himself.

Cullen had been heartbroken for weeks.

With a sigh, his eyes drifted down to the thick paper in front of him, the letter from Amell was on the desk beside, it's edges folding up against the creased edge. He had... written one word, just one, and hadn't even realized until he looked down to see the messy scrawl-

_Heartbroken_

It was just that and nothing more, and in the middle of the good vellum too... two pages in a month, Josephine would surely kill him.

… Suddenly, the Ex-Templar didn't feel like writing anymore. He leaned back in his chair, pushing the paper to the side so it curled against the letter that lay there. The feather of the quill once again found its way to his mouth as he contemplated how - without really doing much - that letter had completely consumed his thoughts for the entire day, so much so that he had shamefully locked his doors just to be alone with it, as though he was terrified the Grand Cleric would come barging in and snatch it away to burn in the fire.

He had been so infatuated by her, so _enthralled_, and so many of the Templars there knew but never said a word. When she was fourteen it was nothing more than a simple interest he had taken with her because of her obvious power and there were few in the tower who didn't; Knight Commander Greagoir was fond of her and her quiet and respectful demeanour, First Enchanter Irving adored her for her intelligence and willingness to learn and work. He would wager there wasn't a single person in the Tower who didn't like her, or at least begrudgingly respected her.

But over time it grew into something more... what he supposed the Grand Cleric would have called _dangerous_. She was seventeen by the time she left the tower, and by then he had sullied her in his thoughts more than once. It had started with something simple – _the thought of kissing her made him breathless, it was good he was wearing a helm and no-one in the class could see his wildly blushing face_ – and over time, gently grew until there were long, sleepless nights when he was on his own – _of what some of the Templars described as a wet, tight heat; he could see himself between her, __**in her**__, filling her to the brim with him until he was tossing and turning in his bed, mercilessly erect and pounding with need. _

He could no doubt control himself and his lust, such was the edict of his Order around Mages, but it came out in other ways when she was around him. His lust to consume... he wanted to know _everything_ about her, to talk to her, be around her, have her come to him for help or advice and he'd been so _close to having that_-

Those feelings, however shameful the Chantry made them seem, never quite left him. Her letter was evident enough from that simple fact.

So was it even wise to reply...?

With the blush that had hotly taken over his face; probably not. Cullen's thoughts were muddled beyond measure; he'd been enamoured and wanting, then so lonely without her, then had her beautiful image defiled and he'd hated her briefly, even when she saved him. Then... the guilt. The Andraste's-flaming-blood _guilt_ that he felt.

It was no position to be in when replying to a simple, familiar, chatty letter.

He would reply after he got some sleep and, if the Maker was feeling merciful, had a better head on his shoulders in the morning.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Thanks for reading! I want to go into a bit more detail in the next few chapters about life in the Circle, and like I said, apologies if the canon is not exact.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes:** I originally wanted to post this as two separate chapters, but it made more sense contextually to post them as one, so enjoy chapter 4!

* * *

_Constance Amell, _

_Of course I would remember you; I doubt there is a single person in the Circle who wouldn't boast_ _about once knowing the Hero of Ferelden. _

_The Inquisition took a stance in the recent turn of events that was sorely needed; I saw no reason to stay when the Templar Order offered no real solution or utilization of my skills. I was in Kirkwall when the rebellion began and I tried to organise what was left of the Order there to protect the innocents. When I was approached by the Inquisition, I took the opportunity to help in any way I could to see an end to the turmoil. _

_And now I am at the head of their armies. I suppose I could say my time in the Circle helped me somewhat, but it appears to be a series of unfortunate circumstances that lead to this point when written down on paper, admittedly. _

_The loss of First Enchanter Irving is indeed a difficult one. I cannot say I spoke much with the man, but I know he was well respected amongst his peers; holding a Vigil for him would help ease the pain of his passing; for you and for the others he was once close to. I admit, I have not stayed in contact with many from the Fereldan Circle, especially now that so many former Templars have turned to serve under Corypheus. If I find any more information, I will pass it on to you, or I am sure Leliana would be happy to help you get into contact with your former colleagues. _

_The Warden Alistair was eager to train with the few Wardens who were stationed with us at the time. I am pleased he found our forces adequate. If there were any untoward jokes on the Inquisitions behalf, I have not heard them, then again I never got a chance to speak at length with him. The Inquisitor appears to have enjoyed his company however. _

_I found your letter a much needed respite between the endless lists and rotas of my day, so I thank you for it. Let me know if you get into contact with anyone else of note from the former Fereldan Circle, and if the Inquisition can be of service in helping you track them down. _

_Regards, _

_\- Cullen Rutherford_

* * *

_Cullen,_

_I think I will wait until the situation between the Mages and Templars calms down before attempting to contact others. I don't want to potentially get someone into trouble by giving away their positions just to try to reconnect; although if you do hear of any former Mages or Templars from the Circle who express interest in joining the Wardens, I would be happy to oblige them provided they are of exceptional skill. _

_Alistair informed of the situation worsening with the Red Templars. I cannot adequately express my sympathy; to see so many whom you once called friends under the influence of your enemy must be devastating for you and the other Ex-Templars serving with you. I have only encountered a small pocket of this "Red Lyrium" on my way out of Fereldan. I could sense it's corruption; I suppose now I am lucky I did not examine it further. If there is no way for you to help them, then I hope you can grant them a quick end, at least. _

_I am pleased to hear that Alistair was able to keep his tongue in check for his stay – considering the circumstances, I suppose he had no other choice. Warden Commander Clarel's actions were... needlessly destructive, not just for the Grey, but for the good men and women who served loyally under us. In times of peace we are to keep Vigilant, and it seemed that vigilance was one of the last things they appeared to keep. For Alistair to not fall under their thrall, only to be branded a traitor after so many years of devoted service – I'm sure it has been difficult for him. _

_I was not aware that you were in Kirkwall during the uprising. I have read Tales of the Champion by Varric Tethras on the matter, but I presume that you were in service of the Chantry and the Circle at the time? What was it like? The way Master Tethras writes Knight-Commander Meredith, the situation sounded terrifying for the Mages there, I realized how lucky I was to be raised in a friendlier Circle. _

_Knowing that my previous letter gave you a bit of a reprieve warms my heart. I know something of the endless responsibilities of Command, though luckily for me, the seneschal Garevel of Vigil's Keep tends to such matters in my stead while I travel. If there any specifically Warden related matters within your ranks, do not be afraid to lean on him. Garevel has served Vigil's Keep for many years and would be more than happy to aid you._

_I admit I was not expecting a reply. Thank you for taking the time to do so through your busy schedule. I hope this letter finds you in good health, _

_Regards, _

_\- Constance_

* * *

_Constance Amell, _

_Your understanding of the Red Templars does you credit. It is rather refreshing to hear from a Mage who doesn't blame them for their previous grievances. The use of this Red Lyrium has taken advantage of so many Templar's addictions; they have become twisted into creatures nothing like their former selves, I can assure you. I pray that you do not encounter any of them on your travels, and would urge you to stay as far away from the Red Lyrium as you can. _

_Although it does beg the question, if I may be so bold, to ask where you are? It is my understanding that these letters travel though several hands before they reach you..._

_Yes, I was present in the Kirkwall Circle as the rebellion began. Varric Tethras is a member of our ranks; he has asked that I compliment your "excellent taste" in reading his account of the events in the Free Marches. _

_The Red Lyrium is ultimately what drove my Knight-Commander to her brink. While under her service, she appealed to many fears of her Templars, - I hesitate to admit that I also shared some of these fears - and was very strict of those under her charge. In hindsight, she wielded the Tranquil brand almost as often as she did her sword for even the most minor of offences, many of the younger mages were terrified of her. _

_That is not to say that there wasn't an unusual amount of forbidden texts and spells circulating within the Circle there. These only seemed to fuel the negative relations between the Templars and Mages; it seemed inevitable that things fell apart even without the destruction of the Chantry and the death of Grand Cleric Elthina. Between First Enchanter Orsino practising Necromancy and Blood Magic and Knight Commander Meredith being slowly driven mad by the Red Lyrium there, everything came to a head eventually. Lets not forget the Qunari invasion, either. _

_Our Templars eventually received some support from the Knights of Starkhaven after the Uprising; I managed to rally what members of the Order that I could with Knight-Capitain Rylen's assistance, to try to bring order back to Kirkwall; with Meredith's death, I was the only remaining Knight of any sort of reputable rank. Shortly after, I was recruited into the Inquisition. _

_It was an unfortunate series of circumstances. _

_I have been in brief contact with Garavel of Amaranthine, he has been busy sending Wardens interested in joining our ranks to Skyhold, he's even managed to arrange some of them into impromptu teams, which takes a lot of the workload off myself. I will send him your regards upon our next correspondence._

_I am unsure as to why you were not expecting a response, I always take the time to respond to letters that come my way, no matter the content, especially those of our allies. _

_Regards, _

_\- Cullen Rutherford_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading! And for the lovely reviews thus far!


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Damn this is long. I didn't even mean to. I wish it went into the addiction and withdrawal of Lyrium a little more in Dragon Age, especially since it's so integral to some of the characters and especially if you chose the Templar class specialization. I can understand why they don't put it in, since the game is about the wider arcs of many people, but still, I think it would be very interesting to introduce "waking nightmares" as an in-game mechanic for not taking it.

**Warnings:** This chapter is about addiction, PTSD and paranoia. You have been warned.

* * *

Years ago, in Kirkwall, when Cullen first received the absolutely seething, hateful and distressed letter from Mia after a two year absence from Ferelden, he'd finally started to feel like he was establishing a new life before her letter swept the carpet from underneath him. Her words were nothing short of scathing, calling him all sorts of names, ones he was sure their mother would have swiftly clapped them about the ears for. The ink was smudged in a few places and as he read on, he realized it was because she'd been crying when she wrote it.

It had been a few months and another, more threatening letter that she would visit Kirkwall if he didn't reply before he eventually wrote back a short, half-assed supplication to not travel to the Free Marches to drag him back to Ferelden, that he was trying his best to start over after what happened at the Circle, and he would try to write to her when he had the time. He'd meant to write sooner, but he'd been so absorbed in work that he just kept pushing it to the back of his mind, avoiding what ended up being something very cathartic. With each letter he wrote - however short - to Mia from then on, he felt that little bit better. It had been so easy to abandon Ferelden and that life he lived in favour of something more purposeful, but when he wrote to Mia, he felt himself take a little part of that life back.

It was only when Kirkwall fell apart did his uneasy fears become realized. He'd always felt... uncomfortable with himself in the Free Marches, unsure of the man he'd become. Cullen would go to bed angry and wake up in the same state nearly every day; it was only when he was writing to Mia that he felt something _familiar_.

He was aware of the feeling creeping up on him again as he passed the letter to his messenger with instructions. Admittedly, being the Commander of Forces was a daunting and thankless task, but one that ultimately filled him with both pride and confidence; correspondence with Constance Amell, however serious, was reminding him of how he used to be. Before the Inquisition.

Before Kirkwall.

Before the Circle fell.

When he was that same naive, bumbling young man who couldn't look a pretty girl in the face without stumbling over his words. It _did_ get better over time; there was never any shortage of Mages in the Circle and it became easier and easier to talk to those of the fairer sex when the opportunities increased, but that didn't take away from the fact that when he found himself attracted to one of them, he'd left feeling insecure and foolish.

It took a lot to resist the urge to snatch the letter back from his messenger; the dwarf eyed him suspiciously as he sent her on her way. He spent the better part of that day wishing the damn thing would just get lost or destroyed on it's journey so he could stop obsessing over it.

Had he sounded too curt? Her rather verbose reply had sounded so... genuinely grateful; she'd even asked him to give his account of the events in Kirkwall, as if she were actually interested.

Cullen did not know what to make of it. So he wrote only what he felt he should – his honest account - and it all felt rather cathartic to put it down on paper like that. It gave him some insight into how Varric may feel when writing his books, although with much less embellishment. The Commander's only worry was that he'd sounded much too formal in his reply and prayed to the Maker that Constance wasn't disappointed in his answer.

Cullen did not know why he felt the need to match her chatty, interested tone, either.

It didn't help that it had been a solid month since he'd received a reply, and in that time he was convinced that Commander Amell was not going to bother writing back. The idea filled him with grief, but even more than that, anger that he had even expected reciprocation to begin with. As his mood deteriorated, so too did it seem his health, which continued to worsen as the Inquisitor set out to liberate the area around the Sahrnia quarry, and Cullen was stuck in Skyhold, worrying his fingernails down to the bone just thinking about it.

Originally he convinced himself that work and stress helped alleviate most of the withdrawal symptoms, so he worked himself to the point of exhaustion most nights when the symptoms got too bad, to help him sleep. Now it seemed that every time he went to do something almost immediately he would forget his original purpose and his hands trembled so bad he couldn't even hold a cup properly.

One particularly bad morning, when he awoke frightened and confused, he told one of his Captains the he was not to be disturbed for the remainder of the day, shut and bolted his doors, and sat against one, breathing like a wounded beast. The morning light trickled in from the window across his thighs, birds twittered in the distance somewhere, a pot of tea had been delivered some less than an hour ago. Cullen spent a very long time watching the steam rise from the spout, curling and dispersing in the light.

It was a foolish thought, so foolish that he was close to slapping himself just to dispel it, but he woke up completely convinced that everyone in the keep - from the lowest servant right up to the Inquisitor himself - thought him incapable of performing his duty, and if they saw him in the state he was in it would only reinforce everything they were thinking and he'd be sent out on his ear.

He couldn't face them. He couldn't face anyone at that point.

It was ridiculous. It was _unprofessional_. _But he couldn't turn it off!_

Paranoia was one of the first symptoms, and following closely behind it was the panic and erratic behaviour associated with it. Cullen dragged himself up off the floor, dusted off his coat with trembling hands, and started tackling his work for the day.

The tea went ignored (_it was poisoned, he was sure of it_) on the edge of his desk. He would make it through the day, knowing – or at least, _hoping_ – that at the end of it his symptoms would pass. With a pounding head, aching muscles and the distinct feeling like the onset of a cold in the back of his throat, the Ex-Templar blundered through the day's missives as best he could.

It took several hours and more than a few frustrated oaths to the Maker before it became apparent to Cullen that his symptoms were not abating, and for a moment he was terrified if there would be any coming back from them. He'd heard the horror stories of Templars who became so lost in their delusions and paranoia that they'd put themselves to their own sword just to escape the living nightmares, and as his heart started to pound against his ribcage, he wondered if perhaps that was beginning to happen to him. There was report in his hand, the words blurred together until his eyes wanly focused on the words that turned to nonsense and started picking out parts at random until they formed eerie, threatening sentences.

… _destroyed our front lines..._

… _now they are... making their way... here..._

… _won't stop... until they... kill... us **all**..._

Swallowing harshly, Cullen dropped the report on the table and shook his head. It wasn't real, nothing was coming for him, he just had to calm down and relax-

He locked the doors, _didn't he_? He was sure he locked the doors, after he told one of his Captains that he was not to be disturbed - still, how could he possibly be sure unless he _checked _the locks? Skyhold was an impenetrable fortress in the middle of the Frostbacks, surely there were no untoward characters waiting outside to barge in-

Except Skyhold was full of Magi.

_Skyhold was full of Magi_.

Magi whom, as he realized he'd spent nearly half of his life around, could never be fully trusted despite what so many of them protested. Magi; with their tomes filled with complex, dangerous spells and their vulnerability to the wiles of demons who haunted their dreams – who spread Blood Magic among the Warden ranks, who continuously fell to temptations despite their argument to the contrary and _he was in an impenetrable fortress in the mountains with them_.

Templar training taught them to keep vigilance, even in times when it seemed calm, even in areas that felt safe – training he foolishly forgot when in the Ferelden Circle – so even though Cullen always kept his guard up, he felt his hackles raise up just that bit further so even after he checked the locks on each door a couple of times, he still eyed them warily.

_This is... just the paranoia setting in_. But not matter how many times he told himself that, he couldn't _believe_ it. The pounding in his chest, the raised hairs on the back of his neck, his short, clipped breath – it all spoke volumes of how his body refused to obey the commands of his reason.

Cullen's eyes raced to the door again, he could feel his breath starting to become harsher, and with it a sick swoop of cravings overcame him.

_There'll be no fighting demons and Blood Magic without Lyrium. _

_I should take it. I **need** it to protect myself. _

He paced, eyeing the sealed crate under his desk where he kept the vials and kit. The Chantry used it, _used them_, kept them addicted and obedient – but if he didn't take it he was risking the fall of the Inquisition to Maelificarum just like the Circle all over again, and he couldn't have that.

_I should take it. _

_I __**need**__ it. _

… _now they are... making their way... here..._

… _won't stop... until they... kill... us **all**..._

That sound... _what was it_? Was it the wind? Surely it was, but how could he be certain? Or did it just sound like that because they were planing a coup? Make it look like the Commander was losing his marbles and take him out, summon the Demons and then down comes the tower, right? Or would he end up trapped again, having to choose between the comforting vice of madness just to end the torture or keep his faith for the sake of the fallen?

How had that ever been a choice he had to make – _twice...?_

His breath was coming out in pants now, as he focused on the door, swearing blind to the Maker, Andraste and all her disciples that there was something on the other side, something big and awful from the Fade, come to reach into him and pull all of his awfulness out to bare it to the world. Cullen gripped the handle of his sword at his hip with a shaking fist.

_I should be taking it! Take it! Take the Lyrium!_

He was going to pull his sword out, run it through the door – his breath had already stilled in the back of his throat as he braced the muscles in his arms, terror-sweat breaking out in his hairline and in the middle of his back-

"There is nothing there. Somewhere in you, deep beneath the Circle and the Lyrium, you know that. It's like fighting through a fog but you can almost see it,"

The Ex-Templar whirled around, pulling his sword sharply from it's sheath and pointing it at the weedy, pale boy standing at the opposite end of the room, the wide brim of his hat obscuring most of his ashen face in shadow. As his breath came out in terrified pants, he realized his hands were shaking, badly – his sword wavered in the air.

"_Begone, demon_," he croaked at the apparition of the boy. He'd been fooled before with images of kindness and peace, Cullen was not going to fall for that trick again!

"I'm not a demon, I'm _Cole_," the boy said, approaching slowly, Cullen brandished the sword at him but his approach did not stop, "you know me. The fog is thick, but you can see through it. You _know_ this isn't true, this isn't you anymore – you have to see past the hurt to find the truth in what I say."

"_Silence_, I will not listen to you!" He thrust the sword forward as a warning but the demon easily stepped out of the way, closing in, "If you come closer I _will_ cut you down, now begone!"

"You won't," he said through his broken, crooked teeth with quiet surety, and Cullen could feel the strength in his arms wavering, "you know me. _You do_. You might not trust me but you do not think I am evil, or wrong. You have seen what is evil and what is wrong before and you know it enough to know that isn't _me_. And that isn't _you_."

He... he couldn't, not because of some demon's wiles, but because deep down in his heart he knew that what the boy- what _Cole_ said was true. He fought to catch his breath, his sword-arm still holding the sword like his life was connected to it, his body shuddered violently as Cole finished his approach so he was standing just a foot away – he could smell the faint aroma of earth and straw from his clothes – and just by the smell alone, Cullen remembered that Skyhold wasn't infested with demons and Blood-Magic, just people going about their business in service to the cause.

Everything Cole said hit him deep, deeper even that anything a Demon could have found while sifting through his thoughts and memories.

Something bright and brilliant lit up behind the boy's eyes as Cullen reluctantly lowered his sword, "Ah, you are finally starting to believe me," his voice turned soft, his smile showed off more of those crooked teeth, "that is _good_."

No... no, not a demon, just the boy that the Inquisitor picked up in Haven. Cullen was aware of what he was; Solas was quick to remind him that he was a _spirit_ of mankind's virtues and _not_ a monster from the Fade, but he had always been wary of the idea, given his history with such things. The Templars would never have approved of the thing, wandering around where it didn't belong, but there was something more to the quiet, ill looking boy, and despite his distrust there was truth in what the boy said.

Cullen knew what was good and what was evil, and Cole wasn't evil. Just... _strange_.

And honest.

"What are you doing here, Cole?" He eventually asked, looking down at the boy critically and sighing shakily around his still-laboured breath, "I could have run you though. How did you even get in here?"

"You... were hurting. I felt the pain all the way in the tavern, but it's a deep pain, it's all old and buried under too many memories – I wont be able to pull it lose without tearing it apart. I felt you getting lost in it, so I wanted to help."

"That still doesn't explain how you got in here,"

"... There's a hole in your roof,"

Cullen grumbled and wondered why he still hadn't gotten around to getting that fixed. His hands and arms were still shaking, he was still breathless and dizzy with panic, but his heart-rate was slowing and the disorientation was dissipating in the quiet of the tower. He could hear the distant clanging of swords in the courtyard, the chatter of the people there... how had he ever thought they were going to kill him?

He breathed out, slow and deliberate, sliding his sword back into the sheath at his hip. He was... exhausted from everything. His disturbed sleep, the effects of what happened at Adamant, his ever-growing workload, his battle with his addiction, the withdrawals – all of it had piled up on him until it was too much. He... wasn't fit to lead the forces anymore. He would have to speak with Cassandra soon.

"I could have hurt you," he said earnestly, looking down at Cole who peered up from underneath the brim of his hat, "you know that. You should have fled when I drew my sword."

"You could have, but you didn't. You thought I was a demon but something in you told you I wasn't; I wasn't going to leave if I knew I could help."

"If this happens again, don't put yourself at risk for me. I can handle this on my own, I will not have you throwing yourself on my sword just to say a few choice words."

Cole smiled hugely and laughed, "You _care_ about me-"

"I care about _every_ member of the Inquisition," he quickly interrupted, turning away from the grinning spirit who looked like all of his birthdays had come at once, "and I will not have them putting themselves in needless danger, you included. Do not do that again."

Cole appeared in front of him as he turned and Cullen bit down the urge to strike, knowing the movement to be unnatural.

"I wanted to help," the boy said, "did it... help? The pain is still there but it's not as strong, not as tangled or as raw and reaching for the surface..."

With a sigh, Cullen folded his arms and regarded the spirit seriously. He still wasn't entirely sure what the boy did - if he did anything at all – if it was just his words or if there was something more to his presence that brought Cullen down. But one thing was for certain; if Cole hadn't been there he would have run his sword through the door and downed the Lyrium without another thought, throwing all of his hard work out of the window. He'd be back to the first tentative steps without the draught, those nightmarish first few days...

He couldn't go back there.

"Yes... you helped. Thank you."

He felt the smallest surge of compassion as Cole's face broke into an incredibly honest, incredibly innocent grin and he shook his head, rubbing his hand under his nose as though it were running.

Maker, he was so exhausted, but there was no way he could possibly _sleep_-

"I wish I could help more – pull the knot free to untangle it somehow, but the knot is so complex... I don't think I can... perhaps this will help you-"

Cole's hands were frighteningly cold, was his last thought as, in the inertia as the Commander blinked, the boy reached up and pressed both icy hands against Cullen's forehead. He would have jerked back, would have lashed out somehow, but everything went quiet and blissfully black-

"-_forget_."

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**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading! Drop me a line, yeah?


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Notes:**I realized, when writing this chapter, that I do tend to ramble on a fair bit. The letters WILL come to a conclusion and they absolutely drive the narrative, but a lot of the stuff in between, particularly this chapter, are just things I wanted to write for the characters - scenes and images that I had in mind to better understand the motivations and so on. I realized that over the next few chapters there will be a fair amount of that and I'm wondering if it is off-putting?

When reading I tend to focus on relaxed areas between plot-points because I enjoy the way it builds characters, so I ted to translate that a lot into my writing. Perhaps that is an explanation of why.

Most of this is written, so I'm not going to change it, but for future writings it would be nice to know.

* * *

_\- They didn't hang you there, you can walk away -_

_\- Uldred marked you but didn't make you. You stayed you -_

_\- The center never changed. Kept safe like a coin in your pocket -_

"There are several more, sir... but similar in tone. Shall I leave them for you?"

"Just leave them on the desk. Thank you."

The Dwarf placed the scrawling, crumpled pages on the desk and took the stack of missives on the right, bowing before she left. Cullen dragged his hand down his face with a sigh and picked up the nonsense notes, flipping through them again and shaking his head.

Since Cole visited him during his little... _episode_, he'd taken to sending the Commander messages whenever Cullen felt himself starting to slip that little bit. They arrived ten minutes after every tremor in his legs, which admittedly wasn't that often, and he could always tell what the note was about before even opening it by the baffled look on his messenger's face.

The night that Cole visited him, he'd had the first undisturbed sleep in what had to have been months. He'd awoken in his bed – how he got there, with the blankets tucked up to his chin he had no idea – the next morning, his eyes fluttering open in the dawn light streaming down from the hole in the roof. He remembered... cold hands on his forehead, but not falling asleep, and certainly not falling into bed in his tunic and breeches.

The thought should have frightened him, or at least made him feel ill-at-ease around the boy... but it didn't.

If anything he felt a little grateful...

Unfortunately the effect did not last long, and thought the long rest did him a wonder of good, his health continued to slowly decline as time wore on.

Cullen _made an attempt_ at asking Cassandra to find a replacement for him, after his episode with Cole, but she outright refused, and sent the Inquisitor to him personally to get him to reconsider the option. It wasn't that Cullen didn't appreciate the faith that Cassandra or the Inquisitor had in him, far from it – it was the fact that he was investing so much time into recovery that it was eating into his work, and that simply would not do. Training the recruits had become painful, he was barely sleeping or really eating, and he knew his horrible mood was starting to affect his messengers and some of his Captains.

The Inquisitor told him he believed that he could recover, but somewhere deep inside of himself he felt the need to live up to his expectation, and that kind of pressure was putting a strain on what was already an overloaded resolve.

The vials of Lyrium sat in a crate under his desk, and he just couldn't bring himself to either take them, or give them away.

Solas was only a short walk across the battlements, Dorian frequented his office for requisitions or to challenge him to a game of chess – he could easily thrust the Lyrium at them and ask them to take it and put it to some use.

But at the same time he couldn't.

The thoughts of being without it were just as bad as the thoughts of taking it.

In the end, he was stuck in a continuous loop of needing it and hating it with what felt like no reprieve. Cole's notes only fanned the flames, and though Cassandra and the Inquisitor put their faith in him to continue, he couldn't shake the feeling of letting them down in a big way.

The Commander sighed, gently folding the scrawled notes in his hands, meaning to put them in the fire, but instead he held onto them for a moment more before putting them in his desk-drawer, next to the letters he received from Warden Commander Amell. He would talk to Cole soon; he didn't need the boy spouting out his secrets to every passer-by in the hopes that it would help him, but he wanted the boy to at least know he appreciated the gesture, no matter how misplaced.

He wondered when or even if Amell would reply... it had been just over a month. Through the ear-splitting headache he was subject to, Cullen shifted the day's edicts and missives to the middle of his desk, wearily trying to focus on them. Whatever part of Thedas she was in, he at least hoped she was safe. Leliana informed him that Warden Alistair vaguely suggested she was "West", far from Ferelden on a mission of a personal nature, and what little information they had was starting to irritate him.

Cullen didn't really understand their need for such secrecy. If they were given a bit more, he was sure the Inquisitor would have no problem offering some sort of aid, especially when the Wardens were proving themselves to be such powerful and steadfast allies.

Commander Amell most of all.

It was... a rather fanciful thought, the idea of her allying with the Inquisition not just with contracts and edicts, but with her presence as well. Still... the Wardens were enough to at least cut an imposing figure for their military presence. There were few even among the ranks of the Chevaliers who could match the strength, stamina and ruthlessness of a Warden warrior...

_And it seems few can match their appetite as well_, he thought disdainfully as he perused yet another formal letter of complaint from the kitchen staff about the Wardens raiding the larder to fill their night-time indulgences. Since their alliance, they realized all too late that the capacity for food in Skyhold had to be doubled - if not tripled - even though the Wardens to Inquisition ratio was so slight.

Crunching up the page and flinging it over his shoulder, Cullen grumbled something under his breath about having more important things to worry about, and left a note for the requisitions officer to procure more stock in the next shipment.

By early evening, most of his missives had come and gone, his orders handed out and, though thankfully less frequent, arguments between the Mages and Templars had been settled. Across the battlements he could see through his open door as a Warden made his way from Solas's study to Cullen's office, his blue and iron armour glittering in the dimming light.

Folding and sealing a letter with wax, Cullen pushed it to the side after he stamped it as the relatively young Warden approached his desk and stood to attention. The young man was v_aguely_ familiar, from what Cullen remembered from Adamant, with short, cropped auburn hair and handsome, boyish features.

"Correspondence for you, sir," he said, reaching into a bag on his hip and pulling out a folded letter, "from Warden Commander Amell, sir,"

"Hmm... speak of the devil," he muttered, taking the letter from the man's outstretched hand, his body tingling in excitement that he quickly tried to push down. Unfolding the letter, he could feel the grain of the paper mixed with dirt from the road; upon closer inspection he could see a bare smattering of blood on the side.

The bottom fell out of his stomach, "Is... is this blood yours?"

The Warden shrugged, "That's what was handed to me, sir,"

Cullen hummed in acknowledgement, turning the letter back over and gesturing with it, "I recognise you, but I'm afraid I haven't picked up your name,"

"It's Warden Tanner, sir, from the Jainen Circle of Magi,"

Right, _right_, the Warden Mage he posted with Rylen some time ago. From the reports he received, Tanner seemed an excellent choice as consult and front-line assault in the Western Approach during their liberation of Griffon Wing Keep. Rylen spoke very highly of the Mage, considering that Rylen was once a Templar, and as far as Cullen was aware, Tanner was under the jurisdiction of the Ferelden Wardens.

Cullen nodded, turning the letter over again, his mouth twisting into an unpleasant frown at the sight of the blood on the edges, "So... this letter. Did you get this directly from the Warden Commander?"

Tanner stood straighter, linking his arms behind his back, regarding the former Templar critically, "No, sir. It was passed to me by another Warden stationed at the Western Approach."

The Commander wanted to ask... but he probably wouldn't get an answer. The Wardens were all subject to their oaths much in the way Templars were, and by previous correspondence from Amell, Tanner probably wouldn't be able to say much.

Still... there was always that chance,"... Do you know where she is?"

At that, Tanner smirked, his eyes dropping to the desk. It was the kind of smirk that said he had the information Cullen sought, but was caught in a position that dictated he couldn't say anything. Obey the oaths taken, or obey a Commanding officer? Cullen could have very well ordered the young man to tell him the truth, but then, he supposed the Wardens were not part of the Inquisition, just beside them in their endeavour, and he would be taking advantage of their alliance if he did.

After some uncomfortable seconds passed, Cullen laughed underneath his breath, "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"It's nothing personal, sir,"

"No, I understand. Would you mind answering something else, then?"

"That would depend on the question, sir,"

The Warden shifted on his feet, clearly not comfortable with the conversation, but despite knowing that he was putting a soldier on-the-spot in a compromising position, it was providing a good distraction from the pain at the front of his head, and the curiosity was quick to fill him to the brim now that her reply was finally in his hands.

In the Circle, he'd wanted to know everything about her. He'd never asked any of her fellow Mages; it wouldn't have been very appropriate to grill them on a classmate from his authoritative position, but he did slip the occasional question about her in with the Knight-Commander, if only to seem concerned. She was, after all, directly under his charge.

Now that he had the chance to find out a little more about her, Cullen found himself very eager to press for more information. He'd never felt entirely comfortable asking Leliana about it, mostly because he knew the intelligent woman would suss out his true feelings on the matter in a manner of seconds, and he had a hard enough time around her as it was without giving her even more ammunition to tease him about.

The opportunity presenting itself in the form of the young Warden Tanner however, could easily be taken as something professional and not something _deeply_ personal.

"Is she safe?"

The Mage shrugged again, a dark look descending over his face, "I cannot say; but only because I honestly don't know. None of us do. I get the odd report from time to time, but no one really knows the status of her health."

"I see. And this... _mission_ she's on to end the Calling. What does that entail?"

Silence, that time, as the smirk twisted the corner of the Mage's mouth up, turning into a grim slash. Cullen should have known better than to ask. He sighed as the Warden smiled apologetically and shook his head.

"Please, sir," Tanner started, pushing a gloved hand through his short red-brown hair and looking away, "we all took oaths of secrecy to the Wardens before our Joining. I can't go back on my word to them. It's... it's nothing personal, you know?"

"No, I understand. I am aware of the terms of our alliance, I'm not holding it against you."

"It's just... I know you were a Templar... it's nothing like _that_, sir."

At that, the Commander laughed underneath his breath, "Yes, well, with emphasis on the _former_. I trust your information, it has nothing to do with your being a Mage-"

"Nor your being a Templar, sir,"

There was an exchange on some level, settling something in the air that Cullen didn't even realize until it was gone. Whatever unspoken tension between them had been lifted; even though he was aware that Tanner was a Warden Mage, he harboured no ill will towards him nor did he believe that Tanner was suspicious of him being an Ex-Templar. The idea that either person _could_ be offended however, was something all affable Mages and Templars eventually came up against in conversation, and if often became awkward.

Cullen was quickly losing count over the amount of arguments that broke out over how _not_ offended either party was.

With Vivienne, Dorian and Solas, the topic so rarely came up. His soldiers however often displayed such behaviour.

Tanner seemed to relax after that, and Cullen wondered if the young man worried so much about potentially offending Templars because of previous incidences. After all, he had introduced himself, first as a Warden, and then as a member of the Jainen Circle of Magi.

"Have you ever met the Commander of the Grey?"

"I have, sir. She was the one who conscripted me into the Wardens. I was under her tutelage for two years before she sent me out with a few others to fight the Darkspawn."

"She _trained_ you? I thought you said you were from a Circle,"

Colour filled the high, sharp bones of the Warden's cheeks when he smiled and ran a hand through his hair again, "I was, sir, but Circle training only goes so far. There is more to battling than casting simple spells, and I was very young when she conscripted me, and very green. I'd never even seen a Darkspawn before I was conscripted into the Wardens."

"And did you find her methods fair?"

"She was a strict tutor, but she was encouraging, too. I wouldn't be half as capable as I am now without her guidance. I probably wouldn't even be alive if not for her."

Cullen chuckled lowly, feeling the hot blush creeping up his neck, as though listening to someone heap praise on Amell was enough to affirm his positive feelings about her, "I am sure many people of Ferelden could say the same."

It wasn't so surprising to hear that she saved the Warden Mage; occasionally the topic of The Hero made its way around the barracks and Cullen had heard more than a few stories of her travels around Thedas, lending a helping hand wherever she could. Orzammar, the Brecillian Forest, Redcliffe, Denerim; each hold and more owed something to the polite young Mage from the Ferelden Circle and her companions. Often Cullen would ignore such stories, as they were usually rife with embellishments and fanciful notions (Golems, Provings, Forest Spirits and the like), as well as the occasional nay-sayer who still believed the Wardens traitors to Ferelden since Warden Alistair beheaded Teryn Loghain.

And now she, along with every other Warden, was starting to "hear the Calling". Other than knowing the Calling signaled the end of a Warden's short lifespan, Cullen admittedly knew nothing about it. Originally he'd made plans to ask Blackwall, mostly to ensure any Warden allies they received were not in any immediate danger, but he'd been too busy, and no one had told him anything to suggest that the Wardens were suffering.

"This Calling, then," his light smile had faded in the wake of such a subject, "I know little of it; from what reports I read it seems to be affecting every Warden. Does that include you and the Warden Commander?"

"Yes, sir. The Commander left shortly before the Calling started, but we received some correspondence from her and others near her to report that they were starting to hear their own at an alarmingly early time."

"I see. From my understanding, Wardens usually travel to the Deep Roads to die in battle... Is it a particularly painful experience?"

Tanner looked thoughtful for a moment, his hand coming up to rub his chin in a manner that Cullen found eerily reminiscent of many Enchanters from the Ferelden Circle, "Not... _exactly_. Some Wardens have different experiences of it. It starts slow, like a song in the back of your mind that you can't shake, and over time it grows so loud you can't concentrate. Some Wardens claim it is just noise, and others would say it sounds like a conversation but you can't make out the words. I suppose it varies from person to person."

"And is it happening to you now?"

"I... _yes_. It is not a true Calling, though I don't have anything to compare it to, but it is... _pretty irritating_. Battling helps me focus my concentration elsewhere. The real Calling comes with increased nightmares, as far as I'm told, although I'm not sure what happens if you don't die in battle. I presume it's something similar to becoming Blighted."

At that, the Commander winced. It was difficult to imagine it happening to him, and then even more difficult to imagine it happening to Commander Amell, but for an entirely different reason. On some level, knowing that the Calling was foretelling your death must feel like every day is another step towards destruction. With his current mood and Lyrium withdrawals, such a thing would only amplify his paranoia – it was a wonder how the Wardens were keeping it together.

Suddenly he started to understand Blackwall's need for solitude a lot more.

"My apologies," he eventually said, after contemplating the morbid thought, "it sounds like a difficult burden to bear."

"No, sir. It is not easy, but it is something shouldered by all Wardens, something we will all have to go through eventually. I am prepared for it,"

The Mage stood to attention again, proudly linking his arms behind his back. The idea that the young man was willing to die for the Wardens spoke volumes of his loyalty and pride, and even more for their Commander, to inspire as such in her troops. He wasn't the first to display as such, and Cullen thought ruefully that most - if not all Wardens - would put themselves on the line to save others without an iota of hesitation.

Just like the Templars would have. The same edicts. Different orders.

Sweet Andraste, what a flaming _mess _the Templars made of themselves.

Shaking his head, Cullen held the blood-speckled letter a little tighter and sighed through his nose, "I'll not keep you here any longer," he said, "thank you for being so forthcoming with your answers. Maker knows you didn't have to humour me,"

Tanner smiled brightly, and Cullen could see why so many of the recruits had taken a liking to the handsome young man. He'd heard the occasional gossip from a few of Rylen's soldiers when they thought he wasn't listening; Tanner was gaining a lot popularity thanks to his looks. Vaguely, he wondered if the Mage was aware...

"It's no trouble, sir, I daresay I enjoy gushing about the Wardens, and if it helps to alleviate any of your concerns... _although_," the Mage leaned to the side, taking on a suspiciously mischievous air, "if you don't mind, sir; I have indulged your questions, could you perhaps humour one of mine?"

Cullen narrowed his eyes; in truth he wasn't feeling in a good enough place to answer anything particularly personal, especially not after talking with Cassandra or the Inquisitor about how the Lyruim was affecting him, when he was feeling raw and open and strange... but he supposed he did owe the man some small token, at that. The humorous, cheeky tone the Warden adopted, however, was not endearing his plea to the Commander.

"... _Very well_," he said reproachfully, crossing his arms.

Tanner grinned, edging closer to the desk and gesturing to the letter still in Cullen's hand, "Your... _correspondence_ with Commander Amell..." he said the word correspondence as though he were making quotes with his fingers, and already Cullen did not like where the topic was heading, "there has been some gossip amongst the other Wardens... _er_, _**sir**_,"

The corner of Cullen's mouth twitched; Tanner eyed the movement warily and stood a little straighter, his grin turning just shy of awkward.

"I didn't hear a question in there," Cullen said, using what Varric said was his "Commander" voice which also doubled as his "Tread Carefully" voice, and since saying as such, Cullen had become hyper aware of when he used it and its intended effects on the troops. He enjoyed speaking with his soldiers and even swapping stories and the occasional joke, but such familiarity with them was not so welcome, not to the point where they almost forgot their place and _his_ status as their Commander.

In a moment of silence where Tanner seemed to gather what courage was fleeing, he leaned in, dropping his voice, "Are... are they _love-letters_, sir?"

Sputtering, Cullen clenched his fist around the letter in his hand so suddenly he could feel the un-marked wax seal crumble in his palm; "_Eh-excuse me?!_"

"It-it's just idle gossip, sir-"

"I'm _not... you-... oh __**get**__**out!**_"

"I'm sorry, s-"

"_Out!_"

There was a salute and a very low, apologetic bow before the young man left so fast his boots kicked up dust, but Cullen was only vaguely aware of it because his face had turned so hot and so crimson that his eyes began to burn. He strode over to the door the Mage escaped through and slammed it so hard the wood on the lock splintered.

He could hear Cassandra exclaiming from the courtyard; "_Maker!_ What on earth-"

Love letters?! Their Warden allies were gossiping about him and Amell exchanging _lo-love letters_?! _Andraste's devastated flaming pyre! _

Rage now in full swing, Cullen vowed that he would strangle the next Warden that stepped into his office until he found out exactly _who_ was spreading stupid rumours about something so ridiculous! How vile! _How insipid_! Had they nothing better to do with their time than make up stories and spread lies...?

But the redness in his face spoke of something a little deeper; as he unfurled the letter from his crushed grip and lamented the minor abuse of the page. A voice in the back of his mind chided him for being angry at something that was, in some small part, a little true. His infatuation with Constance Amell hadn't wavered as much as he would have liked, and though his letters didn't say anything overly affectionate, he was much fonder of the correspondence than he would readily admit.

Even to himself.

… Was he so obvious? In the Circle, Knight-Commander Greagoir knew, without ever saying a word to him, that he was aware of Cullen's feelings towards the young Mage, and he did not approve. That was why he'd asked – no, _ordered_ – Cullen to be the one to strike Amell down during her Harrowing if she became an abomination. Those kind of feelings were ill-placed and the Knight-Commander wanted to remind him of that in such a way that should have forced him to reconsider.

What he didn't count on was, for a much younger Cullen witnessing her strength of will and courage to face the demon, that the display was enough to seal his feelings for her.

It should have reminded him that Mages were dangerous, unpredictable, and getting close to one would ultimately end in tragedy - but it didn't end like that. She endured beautifully, as so many expected of her, and it was then that Cullen really felt blessed just knowing someone _so.._.

_This is inappropriate._ _What I am doing is inappropriate. _Smoothing out the creases in the letter, Cullen picked off what remained of the ruined wax seal with the edge of his thumb and sunk into his chair wearily, pulling open the edges to reveal the neat, smooth penmanship underneath. He was the _Commander_ of the forces of the Inquisition, the last, if not only wall between Thedas and the forces of a crazed Tevinter cult, an army of corrupted Templar each with the strength of ten men, and the demon forces of an old Tevinter priest whom arguably stepped out of the Fade after sullying the Golden City and dooming the world.

What he was doing with the letters was foolish fancy and his men were starting to note that. It should not have been grasping so many of this thoughts as it did, and he should have had the good graces to crumple the letter up and fling it into the fire with the rest of the nonsense he received on his day-to-day rota.

But he was, and always had been, ultimately a sentimental fool.

The thoughts of throwing them away cut a painful path through his chest. He could no more burn them than he could the messages from Cole because they _meant_ something. Just as he couldn't get rid of that Andrastian coin that his brother gave him when he was just a child.

Between his thumb and forefinger, Cullen worried a frayed edge of the parchment in his hand, noting the way Warden Amell wrote his name – _**his **__name_ – at the top, and ended with hers at the bottom, feeling ridiculous. There was a blood-stain at the bottom in a strange shape; upon closer inspection he could see, vaguely, that it was shaped like the edge of a large paw print, and scrawled beside it was a short supplication-

_\- Apologies, I dropped the letter momentarily to fight a pursuer and my mabari, Dogmeat, stepped on it_

… She had a mabari? _And the mabari's name was... __**Dogmeat**__...?_

For a moment he simply sat there in silence as the notion turned over in his mind, and within moments he could feel a derisive snort of laughter in the back of his throat. Reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and fingers, Cullen started laughing; laughing until he couldn't hold his position and slumped to the side in his chair; laughing so hard he had to crinkle his eyes shut so he couldn't read; laughing in a way that he tried to keep quiet, and the harder he tried, the more he wanted to laugh until tears started streaming down his face.

It took some time before he could collect his bearings, until his throat was raw and hoarse so that he had to pour himself some water when the mirthful tremors in his chest dissipated and drink it like a man who'd just escaped the dessert.

_Dogmeat...? **Dogmeat**?! _

And she chided Warden Alistair's inappropriate sense of humour. How very ironic.

All that wishing for her time when he was in the tower, and now he was finally receiving what he wanted in some small fashion – was he truly going to let that little reprieve escape his grasp? Even with his troops and allies blowing the story entirely out of proportion?

Love Letters..._ honestly_. If that was the worst bit of gossip they could spout about him, he supposed he could call himself lucky; Cullen simply didn't want that to come back in a negative way on the Warden Commander. True, it was inappropriate for him to continue... but being finally free from the Chantry; wasn't it good to finally grasp what little happiness he could? There was nothing romantic about the letters at all, nothing for him to worry about-

He would set the record straight if others were to ask, but he would also continue to reply, if Amell continued to write to him – _and there would be nothing wrong with that_.

The pain of his already irritating headache lanced through the top of his head. Cullen shut his eyes for a moment before he checked the open doors – it didn't seem like anyone needed him for that blessed moment – and then moved his eyes south, to study the un-fussy lettering of Amell's parchment in his hand.

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**Author's Notes:** This was much longer than I thought it would be! Thanks for reading.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes:** Thank you **Loverofallfiction** for pointing out that hilarious typo in the last chapter! I have fixed it - jeeze, that was embarrassing!

It is good to hear that these extended chapters are not getting boring, so thank you thus far for all the reviews, faves and compliments! They mean a lot, they really do.

This one is just a shorty but the next is is reams and reams, I've been struggling to pare it down for weeks.

* * *

_Cullen,_

_Apologies for the lateness of my reply, it has been a trying few weeks of travel and I could scarcely find the time to sit down to write this letter. _

_I am afraid I cannot say, or even hint, to my whereabouts at the moment. These letters pass through only trusted members of the Wardens - some of whom still do not know where I am, and I cannot risk writing it down should these letters become intercepted. I hope you understand. Your concern is appreciated however, and I thank you for it. _

_The incidences at Kirkwall were horrifying. I understand that it seems like a series of difficult circumstances to escape from since the Circle, but none of that could have been easy on you. I daresay I admire your conviction to trying to help; not so many in the same or similar positions could say they endured and came out alive and whole. It has always been a source of much upset between both Mages and Templars as to their roles as student and protector, and for all of that to come to a head over the course of a few short years in such a violent manner – rather, to be caught in the middle of that, says much for your character. _

_And now it seems the Mages have abandoned the Circles entirely. I have such fond memories of my time there, it seems such a waste to let all of that education and safety fall to the wayside, but I can understand their frustrations; despite having a fairly welcome and quiet upbringing in the Circle, I know many did not share the same sentiment, nor the same experience. _

_This begs the question however – what will become of the Templar Order now? From the few accounts that I have happened across other than the Red Templars, some seem to have broken off into guerilla factions, others returned to the Chantry and many have abandoned their posts entirely. Are they still active but under the Inquisition, or do they mainly operate as splinter groups now? _

_Since the Chantry mostly controls the Lyrium trade, I can see many Ex-Templars resorting to extreme measures for their dependencies. If there is any way that the Wardens can aid you and your forces in this manner, please let Garavel know. Since my dealings in Orzammar during the Fifth Blight, I have a direct line of trade with them for Lyrium, so I can assure you that the Lyrium from them is safe and legitimate. _

_Apologies again for my lateness, I hope I haven't inconvenienced you overmuch, _

_Please take care, _

_\- Constance_

* * *

_Constance Amell, _

_I wholly understand your reasoning. Admittedly it was not appropriate of me to ask of your whereabouts, given the terms of our alliance, and I apologise for it. I simply wished to know if you were safe. _

_Given the rather large bloodstain on your previous letter, I have concerns. _

_I was only vaguely aware you owned a Mabari hound from the few stories I heard spreading through the ranks. Any Ferelden warrior worth their salt could attest to their ferociousness in battle and their fierce loyalty – you are truly blessed to own one for yourself. I do have a question however, if you would indulge my interest... Dogmeat? Really? _

_Forgive my supposition, but it sounds as though you greatly miss the Circle and the life you left there. Do you perhaps wish the Circles to be reinstated, now that the rebellion has all but destroyed them? Personally I would not see the point. Magic ungoverned is dangerous but there must be a safer way for Mages to learn and practice their craft, and for more practical uses outside of Circles for them. The type of control under the guise of "safety" that the Chantry offered will only breed resentment. I do not think the Circles could provide this as they were. _

_As far as the Templar Order is concerned, I cannot say if they have banded outside of Corypheus's forces or the Inquisition. What was left of Kirkwall's Templars and the force sent from Starkhaven joined the Inquisition under me. It could be possible that some have splintered off into factions but more than likely it would be to continue fighting Mages, not dedicated to closing the Breach or protecting the Chantry._

_Let it be known that the Inquisition operates separate to the Chantry, as do the Templars. Since their revolt at White Spire and the nullification of the Nevarran Accord, the Templar Order, or what is left of them, are their own agents. These events lead to the Inquisition being reinstated without influence of the Chantry. While it is true that Templars could only receive their Lyrium from the Chantry, we have secured a reliable source of trade for our Former Templars here, but thank you for you generous offer. I shudder to think of how Templars outside of the Inquisition handle their addictions – this is possibly why so many of them have turned to the use of Red Lyrium. _

_Following the events of Kirkwall, I have forgone the use of Lyrium. I felt it was in my best interest to move away from that life – you are not wrong in saying that to walk away from such a terrible event took strength, although I still feel it was more dumb luck than character, to be honest. _

_Please do not trouble yourself over "lateness", it is a kindness that you reply to these letters at all. _

_Regards, _

_\- Cullen Rutherford_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Notes:** Shit fuck shit, 11 fucking pages!

Well, I tried to pare it down, but I just loved writing it so much that I just left it after a while.

Please take note that there are some vague sexual mentions in this chapter, particularly with Iron Bull. You have been warned.

* * *

"So, how was that?"

"Not bad," Cullen regarded Krem and Iron Bull from beyond the posts of the newly built training ring they were so eager to 'baptise' with an early morning exercise.

He'd been dragged out of his office in the early hours by the Qunari to settle a dispute between the two mercenaries. Iron Bull had attempted to teach Krem a very specific shield technique, but was at a loss on how to explain it without gesturing and grunts. He complained that there was a single word for it in Qunlat but no adequate way to express it otherwise, and looked to Cullen with a pleading eye to try to convey his frustrations.

The Commander _vaguely_ understood what Iron Bull was trying to say. Entering the ring, the brisk morning air blew in through the gaps in his armour, making the hairs on the back of his neck and arms raise. He gently took the shield from Krem and pointed to the handles on the inside. "You have the right idea," he said, "but you need to rely on these more. You're bracing the end of the shield against the plate on your thigh and not with your shoulder. If you were attacked with a sweeping, downward strike, you could very well break that leg or the edge of the shield could cut into you."

He hooked his forearm through the loops and gripped the metal bracer, gesturing with it to The Bull. "Like this," he coiled the muscle in his shoulders, looking over the lip of the shield to the Qunari standing in front, "a downward strike, if you would,"

The behemoth didn't use a blade, just a massive hand moulded into a fist like a fleshy hammer. The blow came down and he curled the shield up just before the meaty arm slammed against it with enough force that would have knocked a less practised warrior to the ground. The deflection knocked The Bull's arm back, a flare of surprise lit up across his face at the recoil. "Oh _shit_," he ground out, grinning, "now _that's_ what I'm talkin' about!"

Cullen wasn't a fool; he could see the Bull purposely went easy on Krem when teaching him something new to allow him to get used to the feeling of winning, before upping the difficulty gradually. He did not, however, extend that same courtesy to the Commander; the force of that blow would have taken the head clean off his shoulders had he not been so good with a shield and Bull knew that. What surprised him was that Cullen could actually make him recoil, let alone withstand the strike.

It was, ultimately, a mistake – because Bull loved the challenge of a good fight, and he should have known better than to awaken the Qunari's thirst for violence.

Bull glared down at him gleefully, "That's what I was trying to say. Not so many words, obviously, but your language calls for all that fluff. How would _you_ describe that move?"

"Eh... you needed... better leverage?" Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, handing Krem the shield.

"Yeah, _yeah_!" The air got knocked from his lungs when that large hand descended down on his shoulder, reverberating through the armoured plate there. He watched the two practice for a time, occasionally yelling out corrections to the Tevinter swordsman, leaning against the fence of the ring and resting his numb hand on the pommel of his sword. The headache was still at the forefront of his face, but his mind was clear, and that was something. The temperature in his body however, was not regulating properly, so his hands and feet were numb and terribly cold.

The morning routine had yet to start in Skyhold; the runners would be another half an hour before they made their way to his or Josephine's office. The kitchen staff left their quarters from beyond the stables to shuffle wearily past them and into the back entrance near the gardens to take stock. A courier wheeled a cart of requisitions, small orders and packages through the grounds for Josephine and Leliana's perusal. It was quiet, save for the laboured grunts of the two mercenaries practising in the ring, and Cullen was glad they didn't have many spectators.

The Iron Bull rounded him on when he saw him rubbing his gloved hands together vigorously to try to get some feeling back into them, "You alright there, Commander," he said, turning away from Krem just so slightly that the warrior stayed his next attack, "you're looking a little... _wound up_. Feel like hitting something?"

"No, thank you," he said tightly, masking his annoyance.

"Awh c'mon, I've been told hitting me is good therapy," he rumbled, turning to Krem, "go get the stick the Inquisitor was using."

As Krem trotted off to get the pole the Inquisitor originally used to smack Bull in the head with – the Qunari's nose had been a nasty shade of purple for a good week before Dorian healed it out of sheer annoyance - The Bull sauntered up to him with a healthy colour in his face from the exertion of training.

"C'mon, Commander, what's a little sparring session to wake you up in the morning?"

Cullen usually wasn't one to rise to goading, but Bull was right, he was feeling a little _wound up_. More than a little.

He still couldn't believe he told Commander Amell that he wasn't taking Lyrium anymore. Cullen tried to tell himself that it was in context to the conversation, that he only mentioned it because it garnered some importance and that really it was relevant, but no matter what way he looked at it he couldn't believe he had the gall.

It was none of her business if he was or wasn't. Cassandra, the Inquisitor and a small handful of others knew, but only out of necessity. If his behaviour or his health seemed erratic or odd, there were people who were aware and able to identify it for what it was, so it gave him more room to manoeuvre if he was feeling ill. Constance Amell didn't need to know, and yet he told her anyway.

And Cullen didn't know why. Nor did he know why it made him feel _relieved_.

It was maddening.

He glared up into Bull's lone grey eye after a time, muttering, "Alright, a short spar, then," and took the stick from Krem's outstretched hand. There was a metal pommel at the end, and a large bloodstain in the grain at the top.

The Qunari positively beamed as Cullen shrugged off his furs and undid the buckles on his breastplate and arms, stacking them neatly to the side and picking up Krem's wooden shield with his freezing hands. He shook them out to try and get the blood flowing into them, tested the weight of the stick and shield and found them adequate. They would do fine for a spar, but nothing more. He didn't think his hands could handle much more weight anyway.

"Alright, the armour is coming off," Bull sneered, picking up a training wooden broadsword and swinging it around like it was a feather, "that's _good,_ you'll need to be able to move. You better watch closely, Krem-de-la-Krem, because I'm gonna quiz you on this when it's over."

"Don't get your arse kicked too hard, chief," the Tevinter warrior quipped, leaning against the fence and crossing his arms. Cullen thought perhaps he was giving him a little too much credit.

They started slow to allow the Ex-Templar some time to warm up. The mountain air was cool, but the high morning sun warmly beat down on the exposed skin of his arms and face; Bull allowed him some time at least to get used to the idea of having a broadsword swung at him before he was able to push back. The idea was to teach Krem better shield skills after all; it wouldn't look very good if Bull had just knocked him on his backside in the first couple of seconds.

The bang of wood against metal echoed through the courtyard as the Qunari swung the sword down in a similar fashion that he did his massive arm, and without a thought Cullen blocked the strike with the shield and_ pushed_, sending the practice broadsword to his side and leaving a wide berth for attack open, should he have wished to take advantage. The Bull roared with laughter when the Commander didn't press and yelled at Krem-

"Did you see that?! Now _that's_ what I'm talking about!"

"I'm _watching_, Chief, I'm watching..."

It was good to get training again, even if it was just for a short while. They continued for a time; the rest of Skyhold was starting to wake and begin their routine – Cassandra leaned on the fence next to Krem and chatted amiably with him while they watched. The guard shifts rotated and the messengers were starting to make their rounds. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Leliana jog down from the entrance hall carrying a small box.

She approached the training ring with the box in her hand as he effectively blocked a pommel strike from Bull, grunting at the blow when he noticed that the Qunari was starting to increase his force.

"A package arrived for you this morning, Commander," the Spymaster called out, "... _from the Warden Commander_,"

Cullen lost his footing almost immediately as he whipped his head around, and Bull took the opportunity like he was born to do it, roughly shouldering him to the ground. He hit the dust with a thud, coughing as the wind was knocked out of him. Cassandra chided him as Bull laughed and spouted something about paying attention to the battlefield.

Rolling to the side as he caught his breath, the Commander used the shield to lever himself onto his feet and grabbed the wooden stick that rolled slightly away. The Qunari grinned, flexed his shoulders and suggested, "You wanna keep going? Sounds good to me,"

The way he lost his balance was not like him, and the embarrassment as to _why_ he lost his balance burned hotly in his cheeks. Gritting his teeth, he nodded at Bull who tightened his two-handed grip on the wooden broadsword, and they continued to circle each other. As the Commander of their forces he couldn't look weak in front of his men, even if only a few members of the Inquisition were awake and beginning their duties.

"... You don't want it?" He heard Leliana say; he could see her turning the box over in her hands quizzically, her lips pursed in amusement.

"I'm a little _busy_," he ground out in reply, knowing she was baiting him into a trap. He should have known that the gossip of the letters would spread, and of course the Spymaster would know about it before it got bigger. Cullen wouldn't have honestly been surprised if it turned out to be _her_ telling people he was... _well_...

"Shall I open it for you, Commander?"

"_Don't you dare_," he snarled, striking out with the stick and whacking Bull in the fleshy part of his inner thigh with it, who whistled lowly in pained response.

"It does look interesting... she always did love giving gifts. You know, I'm surprised you never asked me about her, given your... _history_."

If Cullen hadn't been so focused on not giving in to Leliana's bait, he would have realised he'd been attacking Bull with a lot more force than originally intended, who's grin started to widen to the point where it showed the gums at the top of his rows of fanged teeth.

"_Red_," Bull croaked out, just barely holding his own against a strong, practised bash to his shoulder from Cullen's shield, "_keep talking_."

Leliana didn't hesitate.

"No, I tell a lie! She only ever gave gifts to people she cared for; she never just passed things around to people she didn't think of." The woman turned to loudly rope Cassandra into the conversation, "She gave me a beautiful flower once - _Andraste's Grace_; she remembered it from a passing conversation. She was just good like that, remembering the little things."

Cullen's jaw was wound so tight it was a wonder how his molars didn't disintegrate in his mouth. He would not take the bait. The rumour wasn't true and she was purposefully stirring the boiling pot to try and get a rise out of him – _well it won't work_, he thought angrily._ I am no more interested in that than I would be the history of any of our Warden allies! _And to suggest anything otherwise was _slanderous_.

But then... on the other side of his mind, he knew all that anger and bluster wasn't entirely true. The part about the rumours – that anger was true, but to say he wasn't interested in the exploits of Warden Amell after she left the tower would be a bold faced lie, and Cullen was never really very good at lying.

He eyed The Bull like a cat stalking it's prey; with murderous intent. There was no Qunari holding a weapon nearly the length of his body - just a target - and he would take it down with the Maker as his witness.

"A shame she didn't accept gifts with as much rigour," her voice had grown just that little bit louder over the din of their training, "compliments, offerings... _romance_..."

She was very, _very_ lucky there weren't more spectators than Cassandra and Krem and the occasional, if busy, passing runner on their shift, because if there was he would have happily flung the shield at her. Now that he was fighting The Bull properly, the Qunari was returning his blows with as much enthusiasm as Cullen was dealing out his. For such a large male, he could move fast, and he swung that sword with the sort of grace and speed that Cullen hadn't seen since his days as a Templar.

He barely, _barely_ managed to dodge an upwards swing from the behemoth, side-stepping out of its way just it time to feel it graze the edge of his still armoured knee, and struck out with the pole in his hand to thrust the top of it against The Bull's ribcage. Had it been a real sword, the Qunari would have been done for and judging by the wild look in his eyes, Bull was aware of that.

"_Alistair gave her a rose, once_,"

The next few seconds went by in a horrifying blur. Bull had attempted to strike him across the head with the butt of the broadsword but Cullen had blocked it with his shield at the last moment to get in close, and at Leliana's words the white-hot rage consumed him almost instantly. Even though it was just a practice session that had perhaps gotten a little too intense, Cullen took the opening left for him as though he were battling in Kirkwall again – with the intention of harm.

Without thinking, he'd gritted his teeth and turned his hand over mid-strike, to smash Bull right in the mouth with the metal pommel of the pole.

Cassandra gasped and Krem recoiled and barked out a guttural laugh. Bull staggered back, flinging the wooden broadsword away to reach up and clutch his face. Cullen could see blood pouring from between the Qunari's fingers.

Part of Templar training revolved around stopping Magi from casting, and one particularly effective way was to stop them from speaking any incantations. It worked especially well because inflicting any sort of pain on a Mage was a good way to incapacitate them, and getting hit right in the maw wasn't a pleasant experience by any means.

He'd wanted to reach out somehow, as the anger drained from his face to be quickly replaced with concern. But when he could hear The Bull chuckling from underneath his hand, the Commander stopped short. All at once, his world stood incredibly still when, staggering and hunching and lurching as he was, Bull took his hands from his face to reveal the ear-splitting, blood-covered grin, and fixed Cullen with a glare that was so intense and so _sexual_ that all the hair on the Commander's body stood on end.

Cullen had seen that look before and the thought made the bottom fall out of his stomach and his pupils dilate. He wasn't in the training ring with Bull - _he was back in the tower_, the creature before him was a Desire Demon and it was coming for him, it's horns twisted upwards and out and it's fanged grin fixed on him like it was going to eat him alive. That look in its eye spoke of sin in every possible way; it would drown his wants until it filled him up so full he would burst, and then it would devour what remained of him.

But then The Bull's eye softened when he realized that Cullen wasn't in the right state of mind, and the world swam dizzyingly back to reality when the moment passed. It was but a few seconds, but it was enough for the Commander to throw the practice weapons to the ground and draw in a deep, shuddering, earth-grounding breath.

Bull straightened, spat a wad of congealed blood into the dust and asked, "You alright there, Commander?"

"Fine," he croaked, his voice cracking as he shuddered for a brief moment, "I'm fine. I'm sorry, Bull, I didn't-"

"That was _awesome_!" The Qunari strode forward and gave him another one of those bone jarring claps on the shoulder, "We should spar more often. Not many people are willing to draw blood enough in training."

If he was pissed at Cullen nearly breaking his teeth, he didn't show it. His lone grey eye held none of the deviancy or malice from before, and for that, Cullen was very thankful. Had he really thought that Bull was a Desire Demon? With his horned head and the sexual intensity in his eye, _yes_, he had thought just that, and he was sure that Iron Bull had meant it too. The Commander's face and neck burned at the implications, at the embarrassment of becoming so flustered and angry, at the idea of losing control like that – so much so that he'd nearly sent Bull's teeth into the back of his neck.

Cullen thought he was past that sort of rage. Thought he was past the memory of the Desire Demons in the Circle.

All because Leliana said a few choice words...

_Alistair gave her a rose, once... _

Snatching the box out of Leliana's casually outstretched grip after putting his armour back on, Cullen made his way to his office in silence as Bull, Krem and Cassandra made use of the training ring for a little longer. Leliana followed in heel, assuring him softly that she would have never dared open it, no matter how curious she was. It was a small comfort.

She did, however, want to sate her curiosity, so she shut the door behind her and waited patiently while he turned the roughly foot-wide box around in his hands, wondering by the weight alone what on earth it could be.

"I meant what I said, you know," The Spymaster eventually said, growing restless as he continued to inspect it, "she very rarely gives gifts unless she means them. So what have you done to deserve it, hm? Could the rumours flying about be true?"

"Don't be absurd," he spat, running his thumb over the blue Warden insignia stamped on the back; there was another on the front, the bow of the twine was held in place by red wax, also stamped with the Warden insignia. His name on the front was written in thick ink, too wide and scrawling to be Amell's handwriting, yet Leliana said it was from her...

"Come now, Commander, I have known her long enough to see when she treats someone with genuine affection-"

"They're just... _letters between acquaintances_, honestly," he gestured with the box still in his hand, pacing towards his desk, meaning to put it down and let it be but now that he had it, he simply couldn't. At her implication, he flustered and shook his head, trying to dispel the notion of Amell's 'affections' as they were as nothing more than a friendly gesture.

Maker have mercy, what did he do to deserve a gift? And if he did do something, and there was truth in what Leliana was saying – that Amell truly didn't offer a gift unless she _really_ meant it – did that mean there was also truth to those rumours that the Wardens were gossiping about through the ranks?

Had he perhaps missed something in one of her letters...?

Cullen's mind was racing through several possibilities, each one even more far-fetched than the last. _Alistair gave her a rose_, and yet she was sending him a present; if the Wardens and his men were not gossiping before they surely would now, especially after his furious display in the courtyard. If he were honest, he wouldn't blame them either; from an outsiders perspective the romantic intent would have been obvious if he didn't know better himself.

"Are you not going to open it...?" She asked after some seconds of silence. Glaring, he shook his hands out to try and get the feeling back into them, even though he knew it was all in vain, and carefully pulled the knot free in the twine wrapped around the box. Leliana strode to his side to peer over his shoulder as he pulled the lid out from the grooves there to reveal tightly packed straw underneath a letter, which he recognised as Amell's handwriting with his name neatly written on the front. The two exchanged a glance before he took the letter off the straw and placed it on the desk, then began pulling the straw away from whatever it was protecting beneath.

A deep, sweet excitement formed warmly in the end of his stomach, his heart was beating a quick, staccato beat in his chest. Receiving a gift was not something he'd become accustomed to; in his Templar days, any gifts received as thanks were usually donated to the Chantry to better serve a purpose, even ones received from family.

"It's... an urn? No, a _jar_," Leliana exclaimed as Cullen brushed the straw away from the smooth, porcelain surface decorated with a manufacturers name, the date, address and contents.

He plucked it out, spilling straw everywhere, holding it up to the light so he could better read the red paint on the cream surface-

_William Du Clermont Orlesian Teas_

_Mont-de-Glace Botanists Since 5:10 Exalted _

_Custom Order_

There was a tag secured with a ribbon around the jar's lid which read-

_Custom Order for Cullen Rutherford_

_Restorative anti-inflamatory, pain-nullifying compound with _

_suggested ingredients-_

_Amrita Vein_

_Dawn Lotus_

_Salubrious Embrium_

_Felicidus Aria_

_Andraste's Beckon_

_1 spoonful in hot water – 2 minutes, only before sleep_

"It's... I think it's _tea_," Cullen said, twisting the lid until it popped off to inspect the contents inside. It indeed seemed to be tea; the earthy smell rose up from the dried leaves and herbs inside, slightly stinging the back of his nose. He knew next to nothing about plants and herbs, so what significance...?

"_Andraste's Grace_, oh I do adore the scent," the redhead sighed, inspecting the tag on the side, "although, I do not think it is the same flower... _Andraste's Beckon_...? Perhaps they are similar - _wait_-"

Something bright and beautiful lit up behind the usually reserved and icy veneer of Leliana's eyes as she recalled what sounded like a pleasant memory, and for a moment Cullen was a little stunned at the change in demeanour, "I _know_ that flower! Maker, but how did she get a hold of that? They are so rare."

"A hold of what? What's _Andraste's Beckon_?"

"A cream flower with a red centre, it grows near water on fallen trees, but only in very specific parts of Ferelden. It is very similar to _Andraste's Grace_. During the Battle of Ostagar, she told me a Mabari hound had lost its master in battle with the Darkspawn and become gravely sick with the Blight. She retrieved a flower from the Korcari Wilds to help it, and the dog had survived and followed her scent all the way to Lothering,"

Gently, Leliana took the open jar from his hands and pressed it to her nose, shutting her eyes as she breathed in the scent, "The flower has incredible healing properties, and the smell – ah, like a spring morning in Orlais. _Beautiful_."

For what must have been a very rare moment, Cullen caught a glimpse of what was once the young, sweet Leliana who travelled with the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight, and the effect was so jarring it almost felt as though he were intruding on something very personal. He wanted to look away from the brief vulnerability, as though it would catch on somehow, but instead chose to look down at his feet.

"But why send you a tea made from such things...? _Salubrious Embrium_... _Dawn Lotus_... all of these have healing effects on the mind and body, and they are all so _rare_,"

His hands clenched and unclenched, trying to will the blood to warm them, "I told her... I told her that I wasn't taking Lyrium anymore..."

He watched the cogs turn in Leliana's mind; "So... she sends you a tea full of the most potent, healing herbs she can find. That is... that is _so_ like her,"

There was an exchanged look on some level that spoke of how they agreed without words; a little smile, a softening of the eyes, because knowing that Amell would send such a thing was also knowing _why_ Amell would send such a thing, and that was almost as good as the gift itself.

There was no guarantee that it would help; the effects of being Blighted and the effects of Lyrium withdrawals were so different, after all, but the very idea that she had gone so our of her way just to help him left him with a funny, weak feeling in his knees and the bottom of his chest.

"You know," she started, handing him back the tea, "I _am_ surprised you never asked me about her,"

"I wanted to, for a time," he admitted, without really meaning to, "out of curiosity, of course," he added hastily, "I mean, I didn't know her so well in the Circle. It just never seemed appropriate to bring it up without provocation,"

Leliana shrugged, folding her arms; "You can ask me now, if you like. It has been too long since I spoke of her at length. I miss her terribly sometimes, and I was only able to speak briefly with Alistair when he was here,"

The wistful, wishful way she spoke of them made Cullen wonder if she missed that era of her life; travelling through Ferelden and parts of Orlais with the last two Ferelden Wardens, trying to put an end to the civil war and the Blight, soliciting help from all corners of the country. He'd heard the story so many times, so many different ways, had even been a minor part of it when they freed the Circle in exchange for their alliance – how much of it was true and how much was fabricated?

Now that he had the chance to know, was he really going to pass up the opportunity from someone who knew her intimately?

Placing the lid back on the jar, he put it carefully back into the box on the table and scratched the back of his neck, feeling reluctant.

Until he asked reproachfully, "I do have one question... why did she call her Mabari _Dogmeat_?"

The Spymaster's lips twitched in amusement, "_Ah_, yes, her noble war-hound," she strode over to the door, pulling it open and looking back at him, "keep your evening free, Commander, and I will tell you all about it,"

It was, without a doubt, the most pleasant conversation he'd had with the Spymaster since first making her acquaintance. They disagreed on many topics, true, but they had always been civil. Civility was as far as it went, and Cullen had always neglected to speak at length with her because her all-knowing eyes had disarmed him in too many personal ways. She could leave him vulnerable in ways he didn't like or even need, and he always got the impression that it was more for her amusement than others' benefit.

She was a Bard, and a grand player of the Game, after all.

It was hard to trust her on that personal level; though he had no doubt of her loyalty to the Inquisition or her faith.

Perhaps the topic of The Hero of Ferelden was where they could meet each other half-way...

Sighing, Cullen took the jar back out of the box and held it fondly in his hands. He wasn't really one for material things, wealth or titles; but to receive something so extraordinary with such thought put into it...

Cullen didn't know what to make of it.

A disbelieving smile spread across his face as he gazed down at the smooth, porcelain jar; it was a gesture between friends, and even _that_ title was pushing it to a degree he still wasn't sure of. Ten years was a long time to put distance between two people, and it wasn't as though they were particularly close in the Circle – possibly his own fault because he was so shy at the time. He hadn't even read her letter and yet he and others were jumping to conclusions of something that didn't exist.

But despite knowing that, the blossoming hope in his chest wouldn't go away.

Her letter would _have_ to contain some sort of explanation. The Commander picked the letter up from his desk, tore through the unmarked wax seal with his thumb and sat heavily into his chair, leaning back.

For the first time since he started receiving correspondence from Amell, he didn't worry about people walking in or out of his office and potentially seeing it.

* * *

_Cullen, _

_Enclosed is something that I hope will help you in the coming times. _

_Before you came to the Circle, I was under the charge of a Templar named Ser Fontaine, from Orlais. Perhaps you heard of him from the others there. Ser Fontaine was much older than I, and one of the eldest Templars in the Ferelden Circle; he brought me to the Tower when I was very young, and I thought of him as I suppose others would think of their families. _

_You were Ser Fontaine's replacement. When I was in my adolescence, he eventually succumbed to the effects of taking Lyrium and became very ill. He died quickly, what I hope was painlessly, and remembered nothing of the life he led or the people who surrounded him and cared for him in his final days. The year before he died, his memory and health slowly declined. There is a shocking lack of texts or research done on the effects of Lyrium addictions, withdrawal, or prolonged use and because of Ser Fontaine I had always wanted to do my own research to eventually provide some sort of healing or aid to those affected. _

_I was, however, recruited into the Wardens, and could not dedicate the time to continuing this endeavour. _

_From my travels I have encountered a number of plants and herbs that can reduce the associated pain such as headaches and muscle spasms that come with attempting to withdraw the body from Lyrium. _

_I have gathered that Lyrium can affect the body in a number of ways; severe memory loss, disorientation and loss of speech being the most common symptoms. Knowing this, I sent some dried Andraste's Beckon and other herbs to a friend_ _in Orlais to make a custom order for you. Andraste's Beckon is an excellent antivenin and detoxifying agent, and if caught early enough, can even help people who are beginning to feel the effects of becoming Blighted. Sadly, the flower is so rare and difficult to cultivate that it would not be possible for it to be manufactured into a widespread cure. _

_I do not know if this tea will help you; it will reduce muscle pain and headaches if taken correctly, but as far as alleviating the full effects of Lyrium withdrawal is concerned, I cannot say. William du Clermont of Orlais will be happy to provide you with more, free of charge, should you wish to continue taking it – he owes me a great debt and assures me that it is the least he can do. _

_As there is Salubrious Embrium and Andraste's Beckon in this tea, when taken together can leave the body very lethargic, so I would insist that you only drink this tea before bed and do not have more than one spoonful per pot. It also has an interesting and not entirely unpleasant taste, which is always positive. _

_I know you have not openly stated any sort of suffering, but I have seen too many Templars succumb to the effects of their addictions to know better. You my feel it is some small feat, but I can assure you that it takes more courage, more strength and more force of mind and will to overcome it, and you should try to remember that you are exhibiting all of these traits in undergoing this endeavour. _

_You are too modest. To have overcome so much and to take on such a task while working as head of the military arm of one of the fastest growing forces in Thedas is not "dumb luck". _

_Your concern is appreciated, but I can assure you that I am as safe as one can be while travelling Thedas. Take from that what you will. There have been times when I have had to defend myself – bandits, highwaymen, the occasional overzealous guard – but they are becoming increasingly fewer as I journey. Dogmeat is a good guard dog, although he does occasionally ruin my belongings, such as the letter I was sending to you. _

_To answer your question – since I learned of Irving's death, my thoughts have strayed more and more to my childhood and adolescence in the Circle. While I enjoy the freedom of being a Warden and would ask for nothing more, there are a great many things I took for granted in the Circle; a warm bed, bathing quarters, a library with excellent research material only moments from my door at any given time, three square meals a day. There are days that I miss the solitude and the quiet, passing time studying or practising spells. _

_Although, I do agree with you saying that there should be more practical uses for magic outside the Circle – and that the Circle existed as a safe place to learn and practice. Perhaps not reinstatement, but a more manageable alternative would be better than disbanding them entirely. _

_Despite everything that happened, do you think on your time in the Circle much? I only ask because there are so few left from the Circle that I can contact, and I must admit, these letters are providing something incredibly cathartic that I cannot quite put my finger on. _

_I wish I could express with words how much these letters have meant to me over the past few months; the excitement that I feel when receiving one and how I stress over what to write. It has been good to get into contact with you again. I had always regretted not speaking with you more in the Tower. _

_And yes, my Mabari's name is Dogmeat. I thought it was very appropriate. _

_I do hope the tea helps in some form, and that your recovery is swift. Also note that if you have any adverse reactions to the tea, such as shortness of breath or a swelling of the tongue, stop taking it immediately._

_\- Constance_

* * *

**Author's Notes: **A note in aside: Andraste's Beckon is not real canon, I was making shit up because the flower that you use to heal the Dog is just referred to as "Wilds Flower" but it's suspiciously the same model as Andraste's Grace. The rest of those herbs and flowers are lore friendly however...

I'm thinking of writing another fic from this, mostly just a porn-without-plot between Iron Bull and Cullen (don't look at me like that). I'm going to write it anyway I'm just wondering if people would be interested in reading it once it's done?


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Notes:** 13\. Fucking. Pages. _Well_.

I do have a tendency to shite on a bit, don't I?

Just to make people aware, the following chapter gets very NSFW around the half-way mark. It contains masturbatory scenes (and I'm not just talking about my rampant word-wank) and ends on a sad note, so don't say I didn't warn you.

I also have to make a few things clear - I headcannon Cullen as a virgin. Personally I don't think he slept with anyone in the Ferelden Circle, and after what happened to him there I don't think it would make much sense for him to sleep with anyone in Kirkwall either, since he'd been tortured and had his desires used against him. He'd been in a bad way after that, he'd been angry and paranoid, and personally I couldn't see him getting close to anyone in any sort of way. From dialogue in DA:O and DA II the codexs and such, I imagined the Chantry were similar, if not as militant about sex as the Catholic church - while they don't explicitly forbid it among their Templars, they have to train them to resist temptations and focus on their duties and their faith, hence why Alistair and Cullen were quite shy and "raised to be gentlemen" around such topics.

That is not to say I disagree with people who don't think he's a virgin, I just have a different view on it.

So when I write about him, I write him as though he has never slept with anyone.

* * *

"She didn't understand how things worked outside the Circle, you see. When I argued that _Dogmeat_ was not an appropriate name for a Mabari, she said it was just in case there was no food and she had to resort to eating him! Poor Alistair couldn't even argue with her; he just sort of stood back, shaking his head and hiding his face in his hands, like he was contemplating how profoundly _terrible_ the implication was." Leliana was standing on the other side of his desk, gesturing with the end of her glass at Josephine – whom she insisted on bringing so as 'not to hurt her feelings' – beside her, wobbling slightly as she filled her glass just a little more than was necessary.

Cullen shook his head and leaned back in his chair, taking another sip. Josephine provided some needlessly expensive Antivan wine for the evening and they were well into their second bottle, something Cullen was grateful for because his head flitted between having far too many thoughts and having none at all.

_I had always regretted not speaking with you more in the Tower..._

_Alistair gave her a rose, once..._

Leliana had spoken at length about their trip to the Brecillian Forest and the trouble with the Dalish, about Orzammar and the Proving, then subsequent decent into the Deep Roads and the horror of the Broodmother there, about Zevran Ariani and Oghren of the Warrior Caste, about Wynne and Morrigan and their stark differences. Cullen had been mostly slack-jawed, not that most of it had happened, but that most of the stories he heard had been _true_.

Including the one about the stone Golem in Honnleath – Shayle of house Cadash. _Maker_...

The Spymaster's stories, however, included something that other tellings didn't, and it was that despite saving so many, despite the impossibility of uniting a nation on the brink of war and ending a Blight, Constance Amell was rather _silly_.

She had been very young when she left the Circle so he supposed it made sense. The type of shelter that the Circle provided didn't really leave much room for social interaction or grace; hearing about her awkwardness was rather endearing, and it certainly took the buff off all those impressive titles.

He found a spot in the mess on his desk for his glass and placed it down with little difficulty, saying; "Mabari are smart though, surely it understood what the implication was,"

"It did," the redhead sat back down dramatically, pointing at_ him_ with the rim of her glass now, "but Mabari are fiercely loyal as well; the dog barked like it was affirming the suggestion. I'm sure if she'd asked it to run headlong off a cliff it would have obeyed without a single thought!"

"So the dog was happy about being called Dogmeat?" Josephene giggled.

"Of course! She could have called it _anything_ and the dog would have been happy. After that, the name just stuck,"

Apparently Leliana and Josephine shared a glass before turning up in his office before sundown, locking the doors behind them and ordering him to leave his edicts for the morning. Personally he was glad of the distraction, but he would have never admitted that to them. Though they worked together, they very rarely spent any time with each other outside of the War Room, and even though he was rather shocked to see Leliana so at ease when finally out of her shell, he was beginning to like her more relaxed state. More than her usual, icy demeanour.

The wine was sweet, but not overly so; he took another sip as the Spymaster rounded him on, "But come now, Commander, surely you must want to know more, no? Have I ever told you about the time she travelled into the Fade to save Arl Eammon's son? Or the time we saved Brother Genitivi from a crazed cult in Haven?"

There were still a great many things he wanted to know, but there was one particular question at the forefront of his mind, and try as he might to dispel it, it overrode every other thought with its strength. He knew, frankly, it was none of his business to ask such a thing about her, but if he was truly honest with himself the answer to his question would dictate his future actions, even if it was an answer he didn't want to hear.

Cullen took another sip; the wine was far too easy to drink, and with disdain he realized his glass was nearly empty. With sparkling eyes, Leliana stood and filled it back up, waiting patiently for him to say it, knowing what his question was but never giving away her position on it.

What harm would it be? Even if he didn't like the answer, what would it truly change?

"E-earlier," he cursed the way his voice broke, "you said that Warden Alistair gave her a rose... Are they lovers?"

It would make sense if they were; though she used a chastising tone in her letters when referring to him, he could tell that she cared about her fellow Warden, and Cullen wanted to know what the extent of it was.

Leliana smiled as easily as though he had affirmed her suspicions, sitting back down, and rested her glass on a precarious pile of reports on the desk before joining the tips of her fingers under her chin. She knew what he was going to ask before he even said anything, and she knew the why behind it as well, "Ah yes, I remember that. Alistair was such a sweet young man, then. Naive, but he meant well,"

Josephine's hands were trembling and wobbling just that little bit as she picked up the bottle from the desk to top herself up, making a show of folding one leg extravagantly against the other to make herself comfortable as she asked, knowledgeably; "He was the son of Maric Theirin, yes?"

"Indeed, although you couldn't talk to him about it; he _hated_ the idea that he was a potential candidate to be King," she replied, wrinkling her nose, "which was probably why he was so enamoured with his fellow Warden. She never spoke of it with him unless it was necessary,"

"Oh go on, then," Josephine chuckled, waving her hand at Leliana, "I am dying to hear this tale of romance,"

_I had always regretted not speaking with you more in the Tower..._

_Alistair gave her a rose, once..._

Cullen did not like where the beginning of this tale was going, although he supposed it was only logical to reach such a conclusion. Two of the last Wardens, travelling together, one a Mage and the other a Warrior Prince... it was like something out of a fairytale. And together they saved the world and fell in love; wasn't that always how it ended?

There was no place for him in that story.

"Yes, young Alistair was quite taken with Constance," Leliana began, "In Lothering, he found a solitary blooming rose on a dying rosebush, and plucked it before the Blight could destroy it. He saved it for such a long time until eventually he worked up the courage to give it to Constance, telling her how it reminded him of her – a single beautiful thing among all the death and darkness."

Though Josephine laughed and shook her head, there was a wistfulness in her eyes. She sighed as she leaned back in her chair, and slowly Cullen could feel his blood running cold; despite his better judgement a deep seated disappointment rooted in his gut.

"And she accepted it?" He asked, although he didn't want to know the answer, probably because he knew it would be-

"Yes, she did, quite gracefully in fact," Leliana's smile widened as his face fell, "I think she was unsure, then, because she was so young and unused to a man's affections. She admitted to me that she quite liked him, and who wouldn't? He was handsome, athletic, and his heart was always in the right place. They grew quite close as we continued to travel, and despite Alistair's awkwardness and innocence, he made the first move. He kissed her one night, right in the middle of the camp, in front of _everyone_! I could see him contemplating it from afar; he looked at her while she was talking like the Maker himself had carved her face. I don't blame him for getting lost in that - it was a good thing to lose yourself in,"

Against his better judgement, the scene played out in his head as Leliana wove the tale for them. It was all very sweet and romantic, and ruefully Cullen allowed the disappointment to take over when he furiously reminded himself that his writing to her had no romantic intent, nor hers to him, and that he should just be grateful she had reached out at all.

But that hadn't always been the case, had it? Despite reminding himself over and over that there was nothing else behind the letters than the rekindling of an old acquaintance, was there ever a time that he hadn't considered, or perhaps even hoped...?

… For her affections?

Cullen felt as though he had walked himself into an emotional trap. He tried telling himself so many times that it was a foolish notion, and yet it was his secret desire all along, and now that he was told something to the contrary it _hurt_.

_I had always regretted not speaking with you more in the Tower..._

The Antivan was blushing, and he wondered if it had anything to do with Leliana's story or the amount of wine she had consumed. She pushed the flyaway black hair that had fallen near her eyes and leaned on the arm of her chair skeptically, "I have heard nothing through my channels to suggest that they are lovers... have they kept it a closely guarded secret? Or, did it not last through the Blight?"

"_Ah_," the redhead's eyes sparkled mischievously, "Josie, you _do_ ask the right questions. And the answer is _no_, it didn't last,"

_Wait... **no**? It didn't?_

"Why not?" He found himself asking, leaning forward, half expecting the Bard to pull out a mandolin and start signing the rest of her story.

"You forget what kind of person she was. Though Alistair was growing quite fond of her, Constance had a Blight, a Civil War and a team of wayward warriors, rouges and mages to worry about. She told me she couldn't risk being put in a vulnerable position, that becoming closer with Alistair meant she was showing preference above others, that her position as a Warden meant she couldn't allow her judgement to become clouded. She didn't allow it to go any further than that kiss,"

Josephine made a pained noise, but Cullen barely heard it. What hope had fled in the disappointment returned in full force, warming him in a way that had nothing to do with the wine or his erratically changing temperature. A smile started to form across his face even though he knew Leliana was watching him intently, though if she was suspicious of his feelings before she was probably well aware of them by now.

"Alistair must have been heartbroken," Josephine mused, sighing romantically and sipping her wine, "but, such is the life of command. Sacrifices must be made, even in love."

Leliana waved offhandedly, "I don't think she loved him, not really. I think she was attracted to him, I think she loved him as one would love their friend, but there was no fire, no spark of passion. Alistair was upset, but he ultimately saw the importance of their mission. I am unsure how they see each other now, ten years later, but I suspect they remain friends,"

His mind was racing. Racing through the possibilities and prospects once more of Constance Amell writing to him, confessing she had always wanted to say more. It could have been something offhand, something friendly, but it just didn't add up that way. She only gave gifts when she truly wanted to, was writing to him specifically because she... regretted not speaking more with him.

It implied she had _wanted_ to. It implied that she _still_ wanted to.

Just as he did.

"Commander...?"

Cullen shook his head as he was pulled from the all-too-enticing thought; "Hm? Sorry, did you say something?"

Evil as she was, the Spymaster smirked at him, "I said; she had always refuted romantic advances. Alistair, Zevran, even myself... until now," she gestured his way, and he baulked.

"I have made _no_ such advance," he said quickly, waving off her comment. Josephine's disbelieving smile eerily mirrored her friend's.

"Your ears are positively _burning_, Cullen," the Antivan remarked.

"Even if you have not, surely you must admit how this looks," Leliana said, "sending letter after letter, an exchange of gifts... are you telling me that you're _not_ interested in her affections?"

The Commander gaped, his words failing him, "I... well, I – I never _said_ I... um..."

The urge to bolt gained momentum as he continued to stutter out words. In the Circle, had he ever been asked of his feelings he would have staunchly denied them, as those sorts of feelings towards Mages were absolutely forbidden, no matter how demure they may seem. Knight-Commander Greagoir knew they were all human, so he didn't make too much of a big deal about it unless he feared some of them would _act_ on those feelings, but the lay-sisters and Chantry mothers would have absolutely condemned him, even in confidence.

So it still didn't feel right to be accused of it, even though he admitted that perhaps _once_ he had feelings for Amell, because the accusation meant trouble.

And Leliana was not above mercilessly teasing him about it.

"Wait, so the rumours," Josephine brightened up, "they are _true_? Your correspondence with the Warden Commander of the Grey has been romantic?!"

"_No_!" Cullen smoothed his hand down his face and prayed for patience, "Maker's Breath, _no_. I knew her from my time as a Templar in the Ferelden Circle Tower; we have been exchanging letters _as friends_, nothing more."

"But you don't deny having _some_ affection for her, no?" The redhead pushed.

Cullen could feel his cheeks and chest heat up, even without the aid of the wine, "I... _suppose_,"

With her victory, the red head smiled and took a long pull from her glass until it was empty. Cullen waited for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

"What was she like, in the Tower?" Leliana asked, pouring herself another glass, "When we met, she had been free for a few weeks and already seen battle. But I knew nothing of the quiet Mage before."

"Probably just the same," Cullen shrugged, leaning back when his glass was full again, noticing that he was beginning to feel a little woozy, "I can't say we spoke overmuch in the Tower. She was one of my charges, so I had to keep a respectable distance from her."

He thought back to before, to a time before the Circle fell down around their ears. He was such a lovesick fool back then, watching her bashfully as she travelled from class to class, bookcase to bookcase, trying to work up the courage to talk to her whenever he noticed a superior wasn't looking. He never did, obviously, but the thought was nice to dwell on, on boring afternoons when there was nothing happening. She was always a most interesting distraction.

He took another sip of wine before he elaborated, "She was... smart. More than smart, actually. I know the First Enchanter had a lot of high hopes for her. And powerful; she went through her Harrowing quite young, the Knight-Commander wanted to be certain she wouldn't become a danger. I remember she was always reading and studying, although what topics interested her, I have no idea."

Her letter mentioned something about studying the effects of Lyrium on the body. If she had stayed in the Circle, Cullen had no doubt that her research would have borne some fruit, if not opened up other possibilities for Mages and scholars to research related topics. Knowing how well-read she was before her recruitment, he wondered if perhaps she still researched things unrelated to her station.

"She didn't have many friends," he wrinkled his nose in disgust when he thought about that fool, Jowan, but didn't mention him – the topic being rather unfortunate, "but she was very pleasant to be around. There were few in the Tower who didn't like her,"

He remembered that she was kind, polite, very well-spoken. She was confident in her classes and with her magic, but rather bashful when it came to other people. Her cheeks would flush beautifully whenever Irving or other Senior Enchanters complimented her ability, and when attempting to help a fellow student she would occasionally stutter over her words or correct them perhaps a little _too_ softly.

Warden Tanner said she was a strict task-master. It was good to think that she grew out of that bashfulness.

"She was a lovely woman," he added thoughtfully, downing the rest of his glass, deciding that it would be his last before he went to bed, otherwise they would be _carrying_ him there.

"... 'Lovely'...?" Josephine remarked with a chuckle.

"It was a youthful infatuation," he brushed her off; he'd had enough of their teasing for one evening, "until I received her letter, I hadn't thought about her in years. I found her... _compelling_..."

"That's rather romantic of you, Cullen," Josephine said, getting this far-off look in her eyes, "to think, a Templar and a Mage-"

"The irony was not lost on me," he said, laughing under his breath, "but it wasn't like that. Even if she felt the same it would have been... inappropriate."

"So you never asked her?" Leliana asked, also putting her glass down in a manner that suggested she'd had enough.

"We had rules against that sort of thing in the Circles, so no, I never did. Did she... ever say anything to you?"

Leaning back thoughtfully, the Spymaster held her chin for a moment, before uttering, "I don't remember if she did. I _do_ remember how devastated she was when the tower fell; it had been her home for so long, so many people died... she blamed herself. Foolish as it was, she couldn't help but feel responsible in some way. She kept wishing she had gotten there sooner, perhaps she could have stopped it. It took her a very long time to recover from it."

Even though that part of his life was passed, the memory left a heavy, dull feeling in him that he never could shake. Over time it grew from anger, to resolution, to regret as he slowly accepted what happened, and his part in it all. That man that he became in Kirkwall was so different from the man leading the Inquisition's forces that it was almost a little jarring, and he wondered how many more years it would take before the regret also dissipated, for the pain to stop.

The things he said to her after she freed the tower... he knew how hard it was to lose the place you have come to call home and he supposed he didn't make that any easier for her. So blinded with anger he was that it didn't truly register the kindness she'd done him until years later, and that regret stuck with him harder than the others sometimes.

"_You know **nothing.** I am thinking of the future of the Circle, of Ferelden!-"_

"_I do **not** want the blood of innocents on my hands!" She snarled, slamming her palms against his prison and glaring at him, her contorted face illuminated with that eerie purple glow._

_From the few short years he'd known her, Cullen had never seen Mage Amell angry. He'd seen her annoyed, even a little upset or frustrated with another pupil, an assignment or particularly complex spell, but never angry. The way she was looking at him now made the hair on his arms stand on end. It gave him pause, and despite his absolute fury, it filled him with grief as well, because behind the anger he could see the tears shining in her eyes, threatening to spill over. _

_She slowly lowered her arms to her sides and straightened, glowering at him from behind the soft swoop of silvery hair. He could feel her aggressive pull of magic in the surrounding air – she was walking away, her arms and shoulders tight and coiled, ready to fight. _

"_I am just willing to see the painful truth!" He called out to her,as she ascended the stairs without looking at him, "Which **you** are content to ignore! Oh but what do **I **know?! No one ever listens. Not until it is far too late. Maker turn his gaze on you. I hope your compassion hasn't doomed us all," _

He watched her go into that room with such contempt in his eyes, so sure that she wouldn't notice the demons and abominations that she brought back with her. For years he let that anger simmer away until he eventually came to terms with it in Kirkwall.

"Everything alright, Cullen?" Leliana's soft Orlesian accent pulled him from his musings, "You seem troubled..."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed and squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of exhaustion overcame him, "I'm fine. I just... I remember the last few things I said to her when she freed the Tower during the Blight. Those things I said to her were... unworthy, untoward. I regret them now."

_Maker turn his gaze on you. I hope your compassion hasn't doomed us all... _

He sighed, standing on uncertain legs – perhaps the wine had gotten to him a little more than he thought – and ran a hand down his tired face, "In any case, I really _must_ get some rest. It has been a difficult few days,"

"Indeed," the Spymaster also stood, taking her glass from the floor and placing it on the desk, hauling up the giggling Ambassador with her, "we all must get our beauty sleep. The ball at Halamshiral draws near; we must be in top form for it."

Groaning in remembrance, Cullen walked the two women to the door and thanked them for their company, his body like warm mush as he shut the door closed behind them. Halamshiral was not a place he was familiar with, and Orlesian etiquette even less so. The Templars were certainly not known for their social standing and their presence was only ever required as security, not as guests, so the experience was going to be a telling one. How kind of Leliana to remind him before bed.

How kind of Leliana to remind of many things he had forgotten before bed.

With fumbling, unsure hands, Cullen removed his armour to hang on the training mannequin in his office, and wearily shuffled towards the ladder leading to where he could claim the sleep he craved. It took him some time to co-ordinate his hands and feet in tandem to navigate the rungs – had he really drank that much? - but after managing the feat with some uttered curses, he fell dizzyingly into bed, with the distinct feeling that someone had attached a hook to the back of his neck and was pulling him downwards, deep into the mattress.

He never drank much – never had the time – but for the occasion he was glad for it, because Amell's letter had his mind running in circles, down rabbit holes he wasn't sure he should follow.

_I had always regretted not speaking with you more in the Tower..._

… _to take on such a task while working as head of the military arm of one of the fastest growing forces in Thedas is not "dumb luck"..._

The caring, complimentary tone was not lost on him, and he was fairly sure he wasn't making a mountain out of a mole-hill to think that, perhaps, there was a small part of her that was fond of him. Even after all the awful things he said to her.

He didn't know what he did to deserve her praise – Maker knows if he deserved anything from her, it was her revulsion. Yet she was complimenting his character, correcting his modest views on himself.

What did it all mean?

They spoke so little in the Circle; though in hindsight they were both quite shy - he more-so than the quiet, intelligent Mage. The silent confidence she displayed in her lessons and practicals spoke louder than any uttered sentences she ever said to him, and he fell very quickly for her once he witnessed her displays of power first hand.

He'd first noticed his budding infatuation in one of the exam halls one evening – First Enchanter Irving was giving a lecture on advanced sigils and most of Cullen's charges were attending, so it was best that he was appointed on watch with five other Templars. After the other pupils' failed attempts, Mage Amell stepped forward and completed the sigil with such ease and finesse that Irving's eyes lit up excitedly with pride and admiration. She'd turned away with an awkward smile, reaching up to brush the smooth, silvery hair behind her ear and caught his eyes from across the hall – he'd felt the blush creep hotly up his neck and into his cheeks.

_She is so incredible._

Watching her for so long, watching her work so hard with her studies and her practice sessions, it was only natural that seeing all of her work come to fruition would make him proud of her – any person with enough empathy would feel the same. Yes he was supposed to watch them, always, for any wrong-doing but was there something wrong in watching their successes, too? Could they not also celebrate their victories, even if they were to punish their secrecy?

After that, he began to notice more and more how her hair would fall into her eyes when she studied and she would mindlessly brush it back, either behind her ear or along her crown. How her eyes would crinkle when she smiled in greeting at other Mages and Templars alike. How she would chew her thumbnail when she was challenged or frustrated with a task. How she would laugh behind her hand when Apprentice Jowan tried to be funny.

And then... how her hips would sway as she walked to and from her duties in her day-to-day activities. How her lower lip would flush plump and _pink_ when she chewed it without noticing.

He couldn't _help_ it... it just sort of happened over time and it was only after Ser Carol elbowed him in the library one evening and asked him if perhaps there was something particularly interesting about Mage Amell's backside that he was so studiously eyeing that he realized, with a deep, innocent horror, that he was getting _very_ hot under the collar.

Thoughts about how those hips moved mutated into thoughts about how those hips would _feel_ in his hands – perhaps the _how_ of how they got into his hands in the first place; Cullen knew then that his treacherous thoughts were being wildly inappropriate, and he found himself visiting the Chantry more and more to beg the Maker for forgiveness.

There were so many long, lonely nights, trying to keep quiet in the Templar quarters, aching and thinking of how should would feel in his arms. He so rarely indulged the thought to completion; it was never empty in their quarters and it was all too easy to be overheard, but there were times when the pressure became too much and he just _needed_ the release. The Maker knew his sin, and sometimes he contemplated telling one of the Chantry Sisters about it to ask for their blessing, but he never worked up the courage.

Admitting it - even aloud - was too much, because then he would be faced with the disappointment of the inevitable; he was a Templar and she was a Mage. It was _not_ right.

The occasional Templar was allowed to marry; Ser Drass had appealed more than once – or so he heard – to the Grand Cleric for permission even though he had not yet found a partner. The man was denied each time, and Cullen watched him give-in to a Desire Demon's temptations when the Circle fell. For someone as good, dedicated and kind as Drass to be denied his wish... left Cullen with little confidence he would be spared if they knew his shame.

Not only was he doing his position, his Order and the Maker wrong, he was doing Mage Amell a disservice, too. Being trained as a Templar from the young, impressionable age of thirteen, they were taught to keep all children of the Maker pure in their minds; to never place blame unless proven innocent, to never judge by appearances, race or gender, and to never allow thoughts of others to become inappropriate, because in doing so you sullied them in the eyes of the Maker.

The Maker knows your sin, and the Templars were to be his sword, his will, his justice and providence – allowing such thoughts to form distracted from more important, fulfilling duties.

The shame he felt when he thought of Amell in such a way never quite left him, even though he cast the Order aside in favour of a greater goal.

So as Cullen sank into his mattress, his head swimming from the wine he'd just consumed, his mind filled with those old thoughts of Amell and the implications of her letter, he groaned aloud when he felt that familiar stir as he became restless and erect.

His body felt heavy, hot and achy, and he couldn't quite tell if it was because of the wine or the latent arousal that had taken over, but it was getting increasingly irritating. Slinging a heavy arm up to cover his eyes, he rolled his hips to stop the waistband of his breeches from pinching the head of his cock, and recited a half-hearted Canticle verse in his head to try to get some sleep.

_O Maker, hear my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
Make me to rest in the warmest places._

The irony that a verse Transfigurations was the first Canticle that came to mind was not lost on him. He'd heard once that to truly resist the temptation that a Mage and their demons offered, one had to have a will of steel, but in the Circle all he could ever think about was how Amell offered no such temptation, not willingly, so _he_ was the one to blame in that regard-

Yet she would be seen as the temptress, and he the man who was lead astray, if he were to act on his feelings when they were in the Circle.

It was easy to let the responsibility go; to wonder if perhaps she ever would try to tempt him, take that burden from him, take the initiative. There were many nights when he imagined her doing as such, nights that left him wonderingly touching his mouth; what would her kiss feel like? Would it be soft and paralysing? Or would it be hard and heated like some of the other Templars described – a rush of passion overtaking everything...?

Grumbling as his erection pushed insistently against his breeches, Cullen rolled over onto his stomach, hissing when his cock dragged against the mattress, pressed between his body and the thick fabric with delicious pressure. His first thrust forward was involuntary; a reaction to the unexpected pleasure, but his second was exploratory, calculated.

It was a foolish, fanciful thought back then, but the effect that it had on his unused body didn't differ. He _still_ got hot at the thought of her, even after a decade of her absence in his life. Mashing his forehead into the feathery pillow, Cullen cursed himself and wondered how such a long time could pass and yet he was still grinding into his bed like a teenager. Still getting hot under the collar with the memories of her and the way her bottom lip would flush with the pressure of her teeth, how he thought about the swell of her hips.

There were days when he had wanted to kiss her so badly; so much so that it was a wonder the Tower wasn't abound with Maelificar, because he wasn't watching a single thing but for that lip caught between those teeth.

_O Creator, see me kneel:  
For I walk only where You would bid me  
Stand only in places You have blessed  
Sing only the words You place in my throat_

Such thoughts were ill-placed as he struggled to regain control over himself, pressing his forehead against his pillow as his cock pounded insistently, begging for attention. He knew that rolling onto his stomach would only add pleasurable pressure to his rapidly hardening erection, and that he was loathe to admit that it felt good _more_ than it felt wrong and thus why he turned over in the first place, but he couldn't bring himself to turn onto his back again. Try as he might to control himself and his urges, he was quickly losing the battle with his will.

It would be so easy to give-in, now that Demons weren't breathing down his neck, waiting for him to falter that little bit; so easy to feel something other than pain and sick, shuddering cravings for Lyrium.

_My Maker, know my heart  
Take from me a life of sorrow  
Lift me from a world of pain  
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride_

Now that he was out from under the Chantry's thumb, was it truly so wrong to think about her that way? Was it truly so wrong to just allow himself to feel that pleasure without the terror and guilt that followed? Hadn't he suffered enough to allow himself a moment of reprieve, now that there was no threat of Demons and Abominations to steal his body from him?

Was there truly anything wrong with thinking about kissing her...? Touching her? … Making love to her...?

In his hazy, drunken mind, _no_... there wasn't anything particularly wrong with it. In fact the thought seemed all the more enticing now that his body was heavy, warm with wine, and exhausted with remembering all the reasons why _not_ to feel the way he did when, despite ten years and a few kind words, _he __**still**__ felt the same_.

Even a verse from Transfigurations, which had so often been his go-to part of the Chant when he needed guidance, seemed more like asking for forgiveness for what he was about to do rather than stopping him from committing his sin. So with the verses fresh in his mind and the image of that swollen, beautiful pink lower lip, Cullen ground himself against the bed, slower, but more _insistently_, and moaned low in the back of his throat.

Who was he _really_ harming in what he was doing?

The fear and guilt still gripped him somewhat, so he curled his arms underneath his pillow to give a valley for his face to rest in, stopping his hands from reaching downwards to take his pleasure further. He wasn't the sort of man who pleasured himself regularly; it was a good way to release tension and frustration, but with Constance Amell at the forefront of his thoughts, he couldn't quite bring himself to go so far. Still, his slow, purposeful grind against the bed was providing enough friction for his breath to deepen and his skin to race and flush, heightened by the stupor.

The thoughts of her teeth pulling the flesh of her lip into her mouth left questions of _why_, and _how_, and his mind answered with images of her head tipped back, neck smooth and long, ashen hair spilling about a pillow, eyes half-lidded and sooty with desire. The thought was so raw and alive that his fingers tightened in the fabric of his bed and his jaw became loose and slack, imagining her open and full of pleasure.

It wasn't a usual occurrence for him to fantasise – his thoughts were lately so consumed with work and duty that they never really crossed his mind, and in Kirkwall he had been in such poor humour that he couldn't remember the last time. Now, he could appreciate beauty, he could find people attractive, but they never really left an impression in such a sexual way-

And it had been so long since he thought about Amell like that.

So long that the simple, rather adolescent thoughts were fuelling a fire in him, and as his hips rotated small, unsure circles against his bed, he wondered if it would be enough.

In the Circle, he wanted everything – every smile and every nuance of her – but he was powerless and loathe to have it, and now that she was reaching out to him, would just the thought be enough?

Would the idea of her affections be enough to quell the want in him? Would it be enough to soothe the ache of the isolation and lack of companionship he'd been feeling?

With the idea of her actually returning his feelings, his affections, his _lust_ fresh at the forefront of his mind, a strangled moan half-buried in his pillow and the head of his cock burning and aching, the thought was enough.

It was _more_ than enough for him at that moment.

_My Creator, judge me whole:  
Find me well within Your grace  
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed  
Tell me I have sung to Your approval_

_I'm sorry_, he thought, whether a supplication to the Maker or to Constance Amell, he didn't know... perhaps both. He just knew that he wanted, _needed_ to feel something that wasn't pain or anger or regret or stress and if her image was a balm, was a _fuel_, then he would have it – sin or no sin.

Cullen pressed his burning face into the comforting suffocation of his pillow, slid his hand down from the tightness of his lower stomach past the waistband of his breeches while moving his legs up to kneel, and whined, low and deep in his throat when he firmly grasped his cock and stroked it down, his whine turning guttural on the slide back up. His back arched down into a bend, shoulders pulling muscle into a deliciously painful angle as he worked himself, his body finally registering something incredible rather that craving what it couldn't have.

The angle he was at looked like a prayer, or a ceremony of worship; on his knees with his forehead touching the bed, and the blasphemy and the _irony_ of his position didn't escape his thoughts either, but they also didn't make him stop. It wasn't the first time the thought of her brought him to his knees, and it probably wouldn't be the last.

He bucked, the muscles in his thighs trembling because it had been so long since he'd brought himself to any sort of pleasurable peak, the hand not around his cock was fisted in the sheets underneath his pillow – and as his body climbed higher and higher towards the inevitable, he could feel that part of himself that was once a Templar reaching outwards, trying to grasp onto any sort of magic surrounding him.

Whatever small amount of Lyrium may have been present in his system that allowed him to perform that reach was _singing_ in his veins, as his hand stroked faster. A line of spit escaped his open mouth, absorbing into the fabric his face had taken refuge in as the song rang – not in his ears, but in his arms and his core, the parts of himself the training had used to perform that reach out of the self and into the air.

He could hear/feel the vials of Lyrium downstairs, under his desk, and he took the fabric of the pillow into his mouth and bit down, _hard_, to resist the urge to swallow every vial until he was sick with the metallic taste of it.

It left a bereft plunge in his stomach, as he reached outwards and grasped at _nothing_, as whatever Lyrium was left in him fought to gain control over him, and only with the image of Constance Amell to focus on, he held on to it like a vice and focused on that as he clawed, reached outside of his skin-

It was a pleasure like he'd never known.

There was only a few more blistering moments of ecstasy before he was spiralling towards an orgasm so intense he wondered briefly if it would be more painful than pleasurable, but there was absolutely no stopping it – it would be no more than he deserved if it was more of the latter. _I shouldn't be doing this, __**I shouldn't be doing this**_, his thoughts interrupted the Chant and the image of Constance's face; head tipped back, biting down on her lip, tits thrust forward as her body writhed – but the pleasure overrode everything, overloaded him until there was no other thought save for the blackness that had overtaken his sight.

His laboured breath hitched as he was coming, the harsh groan stuck, rumbling in his chest, the muscles in his back and thighs locked because his hips tried to buck but had no where to go with his position. Pure, unbridled ecstasy flooded every vein, every nerve-ending until he was left gasping and moaning, jerking as he made a mess of his hand. He could see her so clearly, as his body desperately pulled on the magic that wasn't there, his thoughts on how her face would look in the throes of an orgasm.

_O Maker, hear my cry:  
Seat me by Your side in death  
Make me one within Your glory  
And let the world once more see Your favor_

For You are the fire at the heart of the world  
And comfort is-

"... O-only Yours to give. _Nnh_~" He gasped out as the last of the convulsions wracked his frame, feeling the burning in his body dull to a slow, easy throb.

His muscles gradually relaxed; he slid his knees down the bed until he was once against flat on the mattress. Luckily most of it was on his hand, so he exhaustedly wiped it clean on his sheets with a sigh, and sank into the mattress like his bones were made of jelly.

Considering the force of his orgasm, they might as well have been.

_I am sick_, was his first initial thought after some comfortable silence passed, and even though he ruefully tried to shove it away, it stayed stubbornly there, as punishment. How was he going to write to her after that? How could he think of her in any sort of way after defiling her in his mind like that?

Even though he wasn't part of the Order or the Chantry anymore, surely it was still wrong. Even though it felt incredible. He'd taken her image and used it like a toy – in the Order, the idea of sex or self-love was never disavowed, but it was frowned upon because idle hands were hands not doing the Maker's work, and a Templar spending a lustful moment away was a Templar away from their duties.

When the last of the shuddering subsided, a dull ache formed in the pit of his stomach, akin to hunger, though he knew better. His body craved Lyrium with a vengeance, and no amount of eating or untoward thoughts would fill the void in him.

Still slightly drunk, with his body feeling like it was trying to claw it's way towards getting another vial – just to tie him over – Cullen fell into an uneasy, guilt-ridden sleep. He dreamed of going about his normal routine only to find he had accidentally taken Lyrium at some point without notice, and the culpability slammed into his gut so hard he woke himself up more than once, shaking and terrified he'd really taken it, undoing all of his months of toiling and hard work.

To his horror, he would wake up in the morning and see that the vials of Lyrium under his desk had exploded during the night, coating his floor with the metallic, glowing liquid and tiny shards of glass. It would take Solas and Dorian half the morning, and more than a few considerate but ignored words until they could clean it off and coax him back into his office.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Yes using a Canticle in a sexy way is super cheezy, so sue me. Thanks for reading anyway :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Notes:** This is SFW this time. Dorian is far, FAR too much fun to write. I'm writing an Iron Bull/Cullen M rated oneshot, so I will post that sooooonish I guess? I'm still stuck on a particular part...

Thank you for all of the kind words and faves thus far! It warms the heart.

* * *

_Despite everything that happened, do you think on your time in the Circle much?_

Cullen must have read that line a hundred times. It had been a few days since he received Warden Amell's gift and letter, and he was still stuck on what to write back to her. He hadn't tried the tea yet; he hadn't had a day bad enough to warrant him drinking it. The pain usually came in waves, and he was having a rather lucky reprieve from the worst of it.

But still... what was he supposed to write to her?

His cheeks burned as he remembered his lascivious thoughts from the last few nights, and what he'd done. Others may have been able to simply put it out of their mind, but Cullen couldn't just pretend he hadn't used her image to get himself off, brush it away and pretend it didn't happen.

But he couldn't just write to her and tell her he wanted to make love to her under the moonlight, either. Or tell her that when he thought of the Circle he thought of being tortured.

Honestly, he didn't want to write back at all; he wanted to throw it in the fire and be done with it, pretend it never happened, but then he would read the line from her previous correspondence - _I wish I could express with words how much these letters have meant to me over the past few months... _and his gut would twist painfully at the thought of her out there, waiting for his reply and never receiving one. He knew how _he_ would feel if that happened; he would wonder if perhaps something had happened to her, until eventually he would come to the conclusion that whatever they had, _whatever it was with the letters_, was over.

So he couldn't _not_ write back. Cullen just had no idea what to say without saying _I think of you fondly... and naked._

Even the _fondly_ part of that sentence was the part he still got stuck on. What if she didn't feel the same... ?

Grumbling, he tore the draft into pieces and brushed the strips of paper off his desk and onto the floor (he made sure to use the cheap parchment and not the good vellum, again). He would think about what to write when he wasn't so busy, with the stack of edicts and missives to his right and an urgent request from Rylen in his Messenger's hand, he had more than his fair share of work to do without worrying about writing something of less import.

He made a note in aside to write to Mia as well before the end of the week; she would threaten to visit him otherwise. That was a whole other situation to handle if it were to come to that.

The day rolled by as he completed orders and missives, patrolled the barracks with one of his front-line soldiers as he probed him for answers on how their forces were doing out in the Exalted Plains with their liberation of the Orlesian camps there, and inspected how the armoury was coming along with their new order of weapons before he finally had a few moments to himself. He hadn't even managed to get his quill into the glass pot of ink on his desk before he heard the metal crunch of a boot connecting with his front door, blowing it open and making him jump so hard he very nearly cleaved his sword right through the table.

"_So soft, the lilt of her voice is;_

_A bell in the distance,_

_A song on the wind,_

_It wrests the ear without_

_Care or countenance. _

_All eyes on her,_

_With __**just**__ a word_-"

Dorian strode into the room, an open book held casually in his hand as he read aloud, annunciating every word like a town crier telling the people their Monarchy was betrothed. The Inquisitor was leaning against the door frame behind him, smirking at the display.

"Dorian, _what_ are you-" Cullen tried to say, but the Mage's voice increased considerably, cutting over him-

"_She speaks as though words were_

_Whispered sighs in the morn',_

_Gentle conversation,_

_Moments of aching silence._

_**My** ears are wrested, too,_

_In the candour_

_Of her audacity..._

_Yet I cannot tear myself away_."

Cullen was not amused, "... Exactly_ what _do you think you're doing?!"

The Inquisitor chuckled underneath his breath as Dorian haughtily folded the book shut with a snap, tucking it between his arm and rib as he crossed his arms. The big Qunari had to duck to enter the room so as not to smash his horns against the lintel, standing beside the Mage with an equally infuriating smirk.

"Why, we're helping, of course," Dorian said, patting the spine of the book fondly, "I'm sure _something_ in here will give you some inspiration, although _Vox Eius_ is rather delightful, don't you think?"

"Inspiration for _what_?"

The Inquisitor's smirk widened considerably as he replied, in his deep, rumbling voice; "There's been talk of your... _involvement_ with the Warden Commander of the Grey. I hear you've been exchanging love-letters,"

"_Maker's Breath_," the Commander ground out from behind clenched teeth, bracing his hands against the edge of the desk, "how many more times am I going to have this exact conversation?! They're not love letters, they're just... letters between friends, now can we _please_ drop the subject?"

"My my, such defensiveness," the Mage tutted, "I take it this has come up more than once-"

"The next person to come into this office and reference Warden Commander Amell in a way that isn't _strictly professional_ is getting thrown over the barracks wall," he warned, releasing his grip on the abused desk to flex out his fingers. _Honestly_.

Leliana and a few choice Wardens were one thing, the Inquisitor coming to taunt him about it was entirely another. He could handle their jeering with a reprimand, but there was no reprimanding a higher ranking official, and while the Qunari was usually quiet, he wasn't completely above getting a few digs in at his followers expense every once in a while. He'd heard all about the Inquisitor's taunting of Cassandra's love of smutty novels from Varric in the tavern some evenings ago. The dwarf suggested there was something between the two, but Cullen had trouble picturing Cassandra with any sort of romantic inclinations, let alone with the Inquisitor.

Dorian exchanged a look with the Inquisitor before shaking his head, "All those empty threats are looking very defensive, _Commander_, I'll admit I'm starting to believe there's some truth to these rumours-"

"Those threats are not empty, believe me."

The stuck-up smirk on the Inquisitor's face said a lot for how much he enjoyed the banter between them – secretly Cullen wished that he could make good on the threat and hang the Tevinter Mage over the edge of the barracks by his ankles, mess up that manicured pomp he appeared to be so proud of. How was he even supposed to argue 'defensiveness' anyway? If he said he wasn't - it was a lie, if he said he was – then he would never live it down.

"Now now, there will be no throwing people over barracks," the Inquisitor chuckled, interrupting them, "we've been trying to escape Lady Montilyet's preparations for the ball at Halamshiral. Care for a few games of chess to escape her war-path?"

"... She's not on her way _here_, is she?"

"Last I heard, she was saying something about getting your measurements for a tailored coat to one of her messengers,"

"... Very well, I'll meet you in the gardens. Just give me a moment,"

A busy Josephine Montilyet was bad enough, a busy Josephine Montilyet preparing for a Grand Ball in Orlais was like a Mabari with an ox-bone – all teeth, and good luck trying to wrest the thing from the beast. He was _not_ going to put himself in her line of sight if he could help it.

Passing whatever updated maps were left on his desk to his disgruntled messenger, he sent the dwarf on her way with the towering stack and made for the gardens, keeping an eye out for the busy Antivan. The thick smell of wild-flowers and incense wafted past him; he nodded to Mother Giselle as he spotted Dorian and Adaar setting up the pieces on the board at the other end of the courtyard.

The distraction was good, and he knew that the Inquisitor was purposefully not leaving Skyhold in preparation for the Grand Ball and was probably bored out of his mind. Though he was usually quiet, Cullen noticed that the Qunari took the time to visit those under him and was likely filling up his time with that, to talk or in some cases even help them with personal matters. He wasn't going to forget the kind words the Qunari said to him after he nearly took his head off with his old Lyrium kit, and he knew he wasn't the only one who owed something to the behemoth.

"I've been researching strategies," Dorian boasted to him as he sat opposite, "I hope you are prepared, Commander,"

Cullen snorted, shrugging, "If your strategies include illegally moving pieces around the board, then I can assure you you've already lost."

The Inquisitor leaned against the railings, shaking his head at them. Dorian absolutely despised the idea that Cullen was better than him at chess and looked for every opportunity to best him. He'd used old Tevene strategies that he _guaranteed_ were unbeatable, and when they failed to work he would try to cheat and _then_ Cullen would really be able to beat him. He'd even caught the man playing against Solas in an effort to better himself, trying to employ the elf's style of feinting.

The only times he'd won or came close to winning were the times when he didn't use dirty tactics. He was a better strategist than he gave himself credit for, but until he had the leading score, there would be no abating his ambitions.

For the first few moves they had been mostly silent; Dorian's brow furrowed deeply as he drew upon his "master strategy" which Cullen had yet to see – as far as he knew it was just a bluff and he hadn't made any moves to the contrary. The Inquisitor also cheated; he was more adept at it than the Mage but Cullen knew where his pieces were at all times, and changed his tactics to suit as the game progressed. It was possibly why the Qunari was watching instead of playing.

"So..." the Qunari piped up, "I assume, by your reaction earlier that you're not exchanging romantic poetry with the Hero of Ferelden-"

"Remember that threat about the Barracks wall? That extends to you too..."

"I just wanted to ask a few questions," he grinned, putting up his hands in surrender, "I didn't know you knew her. I knew she was a Circle Mage, but that was about it."

"I can't say I knew her that well, but if you want to ask about her, I suppose you can," he said, noticing that Dorian was attempting to feint with his rook, trying to corner him. He decided to wait a few turns to see what he would do, and took one of his pieces offhandedly.

"Well, I've heard the stories, but I've never seen any illustrations or paintings. What did she look like?"

Dorian smirked, leaning back in his chair in wait for his turn after pointlessly shoving about a pawn (he was definitely trying to corner him with that rook), "Yes, _do_ regale us with tales of her beauty, dear Commander,"

Cullen flushed hotly, both from anger and from embarrassment. First the Wardens, then Leliana, now all of Skyhold was gabbing about it. Weren't Wardens supposed to be _secretive_?

"It's been a long time since I've seen her..." he admitted, after focusing his effort on the opposite side of the board, away from Dorian's hilariously un-subtle trap. It was true; while he was sure she probably hadn't changed much in the decade or so since he'd last seen her, it had been a very long time, and he did have a rather romantic memory where she was concerned. He wasn't about to go on about how her hair always looked so soft to touch, or how her eyes were so deep and disarming, or how her hips made him weak in the knees, _not to them_, but how else was he supposed to describe her without that?

"She had... thick, silvery-grey hair," he started, chewing his lip when his mind strayed to the gait of her walk and what it did to him, "she wasn't that tall, but then I suppose she was quite young when she left the Circle, so she's probably a bit taller. She... had dark blue eyes, and she was rather pale..."

There was a long silence as the Mage and the Qunari exchanged disbelieving glances.

"What, no waxing poetic about the illusive woman who stole our Commander's heart?" Dorian said, laughing, "Maker, I do hope no body asks you a question at Halamshiral, if that's the sort of answer we can expect. _Speaking_ of which," he leaned in, smirking with the right side of his mouth so it quirked his moustache upwards, "would you save a dance for me, Commander?"

Cullen laughed and shook his head, "I'm afraid I'm not much of a dance partner. The Templars never attended Balls."

"Hmph, _pity_," the Mage huffed, frowning.

He supposed he couldn't really describe her in a poetic sense because he didn't really think of her in a poetic way. Much like when he was faced with the prospect of speaking with her, he found his words simply failed him in his awe of her, and his thoughts didn't differ overmuch, either. She was an incredible, compelling, enthralling woman... and he didn't really deserve her affections.

Not after all the awful things he said to her. But he wouldn't deny her his reply, knowing that she wanted to re-connect with him. If only he could figure out what to say...

"She was amazing," he said eventually, after a few more moves were made; he could see Dorian getting silently enraged with the eventual outcome of the game, "and that's not 'waxing poetic', either. She was just as beautiful as she was inspiring, in and after the Circle."

Dorian made his next move as the Inquisitor adjusted his position on the railings, "You certainly set yourself a high bar;" the Mage said, "a woman with pages worth of titles and honours, an Arling, an army, who's tactical mastery of the battlefield was so audacious it inspired more than a few books; some of which even made their way to Tevinter. Did you know the tactics she employed during the siege of Amaranthine were especially popular in the North?"

"Oh?"

"_Indeed_. Her sacrifice of her fortifications to protect the city was greatly admired – considering she had the Keep modified to the point where it only took five years to reconstruct it. That kind of patience and careful planning is commended by the Magisterium, although the fact that it came from Ferelden was greatly downplayed. They focused more on the _Warden_ part of the Ferelden Warden Commander, defending Amaranthine."

When travelling to Kirkwall, he picked up the news that there had been an unsuccessful siege by Darkspawn on the Ferelden Warden's Arling. At the time he'd been so fed up with Ferelden that it cemented his decision to leave, convinced the Darkspawn would never truly leave it, no matter how well Warden Commander Amell defended it. He had no idea however, that news of her exploits had travelled as far as the Imperium.

Leaning back in his seat, he could imagine her in the heat of battle with her Warden army at her back; staff raised high into the air, drawing upon her magic. It was a stark contrast to the soft smiles and gentle personality she exuded in the Circle, though the image didn't fail to make him smile.

"Are you... _blushing_, Commander?!" Dorian was about to make his next move, but instead placed his piece back down, looking first at him and then evilly at the Qunari beside them.

"I think he is..." the Inquisitor confirmed, grinning.

"I am _not_-!"

"'_Letters between friends'_, he says, '_nothing __**romantic**__ about them'_; and you sit there, red-faced like a teenager and expect us to believe you?"

The mage slumped in his chair, chortling with mirth. Cullen crossed his arms in annoyance at the man's antics – he supposed that such an isolated and albeit small community like those of the ranks who stayed in Skyhold to work would enjoy the circulation of gossip; it was only natural. He did not however, appreciate when it was at his expense.

He was having a hard enough time working up the courage to write to Warden Amell in the first place; their teasing was not helping his confidence.

Cassandra approached them from across the end of the garden, one long, pointed brow raised high at the still-laughing Mage, "I suppose your guffawing has nothing to do with chess, no?"

Dorian waved her off, wiping a faux tear from his eye, "My dear Seeker, if only you knew."

She leaned against the railings next to the Inquisitor, her shoulder brushing against his upper arm; "I presume Cullen is still winning, given half your pieces are missing?"

"The game continues," the Mage hissed, straightening, "until there is a victor, and those pieces were sacrificed for the greater good,"

He snorted at that, knowing that in less than a few moves he would have Dorian's king and the game would be checkmate; and he did just that, not really able to hide the smug grin when he moved his final piece and sat back, watching the man fume silently; "... What _strategies_ were you researching again?"

"You _do_ realize Cullen was hired for his strategic intelligence, right?" The Qunari asked, jerking one large thumb in the Ex-Templar's direction, "I don't know why you keep challenging him."

Dorian glowered.

When the Inquisitor tried to cheat, Cullen beat him in a few short moves, mostly because he'd moved so fast that the only reason Cullen was aware of what he did was because he memorised the pieces and their positions. It was no different on a battlefield; if the enemy makes a move, you send orders for a counter-attack, defence or retreat, depending on the situation, how many soldiers you have, what kind of terrain you fight on, etcetera etcetera. Dorian played chess to win and boost his ego, Cullen played chess because he enjoyed the tactical methods behind it – winning was a reward for understanding the opponent and adapting to their methods.

A lesson hard won when challenging his sister.

They set the board up for another game; both the Inquisitor and Cassandra refused to lose to him again, and sat back against the railings, conversing quietly as Dorian learned to keep his mouth shut and concentrate. He played with the idea of throwing a few moves to let the Mage win, but thought the better of it; he didn't want to give the man the smug satisfaction.

The Tevinter met his gaze at some point, jerking his head towards the Inquisitor and Cassandra and smirking with that sly smirk that quirked the edge of his moustache. The two in question were close enough that their arms touched, Cassandra had to crane her neck up just to meet his gaze – equally he bent just that little bit down to converse with her properly. There was a mutual fondness there, so much so that Cullen felt a sort of second-hand embarrassment for them and averted his eyes.

Dorian cleared his throat loudly; Cassandra flushed from the neck all the way to her hairline.

"Wonderful atmosphere about, isn't there?" The Mage said, and Cullen hummed in agreement. The Qunari and Seeker were dutifully silent.

Now that he was finally starting to concentrate on playing and not winning, Dorian was doing better than anticipated. He would still lose; the Commander was not about throw his game just because the Mage started doing better, but it made for a better play.

"So, come now, Commander; if you're not writing smutty poetry to the Hero of Ferelden, what _have_ you been exchanging so many letters about? The word on everyone's lips is 'love'," The Mage said, his brow furrowing as he contemplated his next move.

"I don't understand why everyone is so concerned with my private affairs," he mused in reply, sighing, "but I can assure you, it's nothing of the sort. I was a Templar in the Ferelden Circle of Magi before I left for Kirkwall. I attended her Harrowing; she was simply looking to reconnect with some of the people there from before she was recruited. We have been discussing recent events and occasionally reminiscing about the Ferelden Circle. That's _all_."

Dorian snorted, "That's _it_? Well that's terribly boring, isn't it?"

… But that wasn't just it, was it? _I had always regretted not speaking with you more in the Tower... _the sentence echoed in his head, over and over. There was more to it than he was willing to admit to himself, much less anyone else, and it was one of the reasons he was finding it so difficult to think of a solid reply without waving the comment off entirely.

What _was_ he supposed to say to that? There were so many things he _wanted_ to say, but they opened up a lot of doors he wasn't sure he could go through. _I wish I spoke with you more, too,_ and, _I can't say my memories of the Tower were fond, but my memories of __**you**__ were._

He didn't know if he could handle a reply to that, regardless of what it said. And yet he couldn't stand the idea of _not_ saying it.

When he won the game he and Dorian were playing; the Mage frowned and flicked a pawn across the board at him arrogantly. With the sun beginning to set, they left the garden to separate in the Hall; Dorian was going to drink his loss away in the library, Cassandra was heading to the armoury to check the status of her broken gauntlets, the Inquisitor followed Cullen to his office – he noticed the poetry book Dorian was carrying earlier was tucked neatly under the Qunari's arm.

Originally he did not believe Varric's suspicions that there was something between Cassandra and the Inquisitor, but seeing them together in the gardens suggested otherwise, and he quietly admitted to himself that they looked good together, that they really suited each other. He questioned the budding envy in his chest; it was certainly something he had never been envious of before – the idea of courtship or indeed a relationship.

In the Tower, some few Templars occasionally lamented the notion that their duties had taken the chance for a family or for love away from them, rare as it was to meet a Templar who thought as such. Their morals were much looser in Kirkwall; he was _well_ aware of the of the rota of Templars and recruits who frequented the Blooming Rose – he had never pursued such temptations, nor did he particularly want romantic company at the time...

Though there was the occasional, wistful thought about Amell in the Circle when he was younger. Courting. Children. Land. A place to call home.

_Impossible. _

"Forgive me if I'm being improper," the Qunari rumbled as they made their way through Solas's empty study, "but you _have_ looked a lot happier lately."

He rose a brow at the behemoth, who shrugged, continuing, "I mean, first you start receiving these letters, then a gift, then there was that incident with Iron Bull in the training yard-"

"_That_ was a gross mistake on my part-"

"Regardless, it happened because of these rumours circulating about you and the Hero of Ferelden, and people are starting to notice the improvement in your mood. You have to admit, that's a lot of coincidences."

He wasn't really sure what to say, as he pushed through the doors onto the Barracks – the Inquisitor had seen him quite vulnerable when he was at his lowest and still did not pick, pry, or loathe him for it. He'd been very firm, but encouraging that he wanted Cullen to beat his addiction, believed he would succeed. Now he was trying to talk to him on that level again, and it was opening something up that Cullen wasn't sure about at all, overexposing him to feelings he didn't really want to acknowledge, _not yet_.

"I am... quite fond of her," he admitted, stopping along the barracks so the Qunari turned to face him, his icy grey eyes seeming very piercing in the evening light, "and I was – in the Circle, I mean. She is an incredible woman, and I often find myself stuck on what to say to her without... well..."

"Sounding like a fool?" The Inquisitor finished, switching the poetry book from one arm to the other.

"I suppose so..."

The mountain air breezed briskly through the Keep; birds twittered loudly in the trees as Leliana's ravens perched threateningly, watching them with black eyes. Smells from the kitchen carried over the barracks walls; the scent of bread and stew, rosemary and ale. A horse whickered in the distance.

"... I would get so tongue-tied in the Circle," he said, smiling at the memory, "I could barely say a word to her without... falling all over myself. But I am older now, and so is she... and I won't deny that there are things I want to say to her. I just... I wish I knew how to put it into words."

The Inquisitor smiled easily, showing off the barest points of his overlarge Qunari canine-teeth. The mercenary had been so _salty_ when he first joined the Inquisition; he didn't trust anyone and looked for every opportunity to make them aware of just that. He didn't want to lead them, just to get back into his old mercenary group and make his way home – then he travelled to the bleak future with Dorian, saw what awaited the world if he didn't take the mantle of the Hero.

His perspective changed drastically after that. Cullen supposed a lot of that had been Cassandra's doing, as well. The woman certainly didn't take a blasé attitude lightly.

He fixed him with that startlingly open, honest look, and said, shrugging; "Say what you want to say. The worst she can say is no,"

Cullen chuckled darkly, thinking of all the awful things he said to her, "There are far worse things she could say to me. Nothing I wouldn't deserve,"

The Inquisitor waved him off after that, leaving Cullen to enter his office and roll his eyes at the stack of missives and reports waiting for him. A maid had been by to change the candles, there was a jug of wine waiting for him on his desk but he pushed it to the side, not really feeling up for drinking.

With the letter he was about to write, he wanted to be coherent and on point.

Cullen picked up the box of scrolls and stacks of books from his chair, placed them among the growing mess on the floor, and sat down, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling more than a little reluctant.

She had been so... forthcoming with how she felt; what if she too was struggling with writing to him, wondering if she should write something that perhaps would seem too informal? Did she blush and stutter just as he did? Or did she, more likely, write with a cool, calm confidence, knowing what she was putting on paper was the truth?

Did any of that matter?

He looked down at the mess on his desk... and noticed a folded, slightly crumpled slip of paper, torn at the edges like it had been ripped out of a book. Picking it up, he curiously unfolded it between his thumbs and saw three scrawled, barely legible words in Cole's messy handwriting-

_Just be honest_

Breathing out a long, hard breath, Cullen set his shoulders, pulling out some parchment from his desk-drawer, tossing is quill into the glass pot of ink, setting the wax over a flame to get it ready. He would at least put together a draft of what he wanted to say in reply to her previous letter, and when he was happy with it, he would send it to her, and worry about her reply when it was in his hands.

* * *

_Constance, _

_I cannot thank you enough for the gift you sent me. I was certainly not expecting it when it arrived, nor for it to be so thoughtful. Leliana informed me of the origins of this tea and its healing properties; I admit that I know next to nothing about botany, but the fact that a flower in it saved your Mabari from the Blight gives me some inclination of its affects. _

_I cannot say I have been having an easy time of withdrawing from Lyrium. I do not envy any Templar who chooses to do this without the type of support that I have within the Inquisition. I am sure your gift will help, and I will let you know for future reference if it has the desired effect. _

_While I am aware that I was Ser Fontaine's replacement when I joined the Circle, I knew nothing about him. The Knight-Commander was fond of the man and spoke little of him; I presume his death hit a lot of the others quite hard there, including yourself. As Templars, we are asked to keep a respectable distance from our charges at all times, but it is good to hear that your relationship with Ser Fontaine inspired you to work. It is not often that I hear of positive relationships between Templars and Mages. Had you not been conscripted, I am sure your research would have borne some understanding. _

_Your concern for my health is appreciated but I would ask you not to trouble yourself. I have the support I need to help me here with the Inquisition; much as I loathe the idea of someone taking care of me, I will admit it is good to feel the sense of community here. The strength it takes to kick this habit is monumental, but it is a burden shared, and I am better for it. _

_My thoughts do not stray overmuch to my time with the Ferelden Circle. After what happened with Uldred and the Blood Mages, many of the fond memories I had were sullied by his doing. _

_However, there has been something troubling me of late, in regards to the Circle; I have wanted to write it to you but could never formulate the words without sounding like a fool. After you liberated the Tower during the Blight, I believe I said some monstrous, terribly unkind things to you before you faced Uldred and his demons. The Circle was your home too, but I was so blinded with hatred and rage that I couldn't see any other way out. _

_I regret these things now. I need you to know that._

_Were it not for you, I would have been dead or lost my mind a long time ago. So many people in Ferelden owe you their lives, directly and indirectly, but I repaid you with an unkindness so great that it followed me for years. _

_After you sent that gift, I felt I did not deserve such thoughtfulness from you. It has been so long ago I doubt you remember it, but I do, and I have wanted to tell you that for a long time. _

_I hope this letter finds you well, _

_\- Cullen_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** _Vox Eius_ is latin for "Her Voice". Tevene reminds me of Latin in the way it is pronounced, although a lot of the words appear to be Romanian...?

I do enjoy smutty poetry.

Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Notes:** Well now... this is a rather strange chapter. It's SFW, yes, though it does have some very minor mentions of a sexual nature. This chapter is more of a flashback or reminiscence of Cullen's time in the Ferelden Circle, as well as Amell's reply to his previous letter.

Sorry this came so late. I went out for a few drinks and edits this while slightly drunk, so apologies if there are many mistakes.

* * *

"Your first assignments will be fairly easy... I'll put you with two of the older Apprentices for the moment, to get you used to life here in the Tower, but after some weeks you will be expected to work on a rota. Is this understood?"

"Yes, ser,"

"Good, follow me," the Knight-Commander had barely looked up from the mountain of papers on his desk, shoving one aside as he stepped out from behind it and began walking towards the door. Knight-Commander Greagoir was a tough looking old man; most of his hair was greying, his deep brow seemed to be drawn in a constant frown, and he kept a semi-permanent hold on the pommel of his sword, as though any minute he expected to have to use it.

A lot of the older Templars were paranoid like that. Some said it was the Lyrium, others said it was the lifestyle.

"Every Templar working in a Circle has a number of charges," the man continued, Cullen fell into a respectful step behind him as they descended down a floor, "you will be expected to keep vigilant of _every_ Mage here, but you will be assigned specific charges to watch when not on a rotating shift. We would _recommend_ you do not let your charges know of your other assignments within the Tower and as part of the Chantry, although I know over time it can become obvious to them."

It had taken a good while to ascend the Tower, and now that they were making their way back down again he could really take a moment to appreciate the architecture. There were few windows, the high ceilings were illuminated with chandeliers full of candles – he would have asked himself how on earth they could reach them to light the candles, but then he supposed – _Mages_ as they were. _Obviously. _

It took a significant amount of effort to stop the nervous trembling in his hands and voice – he didn't want to seem anxious on his first assignment as a fully-fledged Templar, but he had to admit, it was daunting being in a Tower full to bursting with magic, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't rather curious about meeting a Mage. On his way up he'd caught glimpses through doorways and down halls, but nothing else. It was as exciting as it was equally terrifying.

"At any point, without reason or without question, you can be asked to change assignments at a moments notice," the man continued, "it is rare that this happens, but if I find that duties are not being carried out in accordance to the laws here, I will make these changes as I see fit."

The Tower was relatively quiet; the metallic sounds of their armour echoed off the stone walls and marble floors. He'd heard once that Kinloch Hold was cursed – the Avvars and Dwarves built it some centuries ago before they were driven out by the Tevinter Imperium. It was old, and though it certainly showed its age it looked no worse for wear.

"I will introduce you to your first two charges, then you will be escorted to your quarters. I will give you a respite of two days before you are to assume your duties here. I understand that it can be a trying first few weeks to adjust to life here, but with time I trust you will fathom the tasks ahead of you."

"I understand, ser," he said, gaining confidence when his voice did not falter.

"You will be replacing the late Ser Fontaine. He passed some weeks ago from his age."

"Yes, ser. I am... sorry for his passing."

"And I appreciate it," his clipped tone said otherwise, but Cullen didn't dare press, and kept his mouth dutifully shut as he continued, "There was one under his charge who will be assigned to you; usually I will not go out of my way to introduce Templars to their charges unless they are especially young and in need of guidance, but Fontaine was fond of this one, and his death has greatly upset her. I would appreciate if you did _not_ mention Fontaine to her, out of respect."

They stopped outside what he vaguely remembered was the library as one of the other Templars showed him on the way up. The Knight-Commander turned to him, linking his arms behind his back. A tiny part of him felt like shrivelling up and dying underneath his stone-cold gaze.

"Your first assignment will be Apprentice Constance Amell," he said, "Ser Fontaine brought her to the Tower when she was four years old – she's intelligent, quiet, never given any of us a reason to mistrust her. I should hope you won't get any sort of sass or smart comments from her, but I've been surprised by the good ones before. What does worry me is her friendship with another Mage, Apprentice Jowan. The boy is a _snake_; I tolerate their relationship in the hopes that she will be a good influence on him, but after so many years I am starting to doubt it. _Keep an eye on him around her_."

He struggled briefly to process all of the information given him – his charge was Mage Amell, who was a decent sort, but Mage Jowan could potentially be a threat or have undue influence over her, their friendship was tolerated but would be monitored, right, _got it_.

The Knight-Commander pushed the heavy, rounded door open and brought him into the huge, rolling library, full of dusty cases and stacks of books stretching almost to the ceiling. Most of the inhabitants – Mages and a handful of helmed Templars – were completely silent; there was only the scratching of quills and fluttering of pages to fill the empty space.

When they rounded the first row of bookcases to reveal the long table beyond, Cullen would say he wasn't expecting Mage Amell to be at the end, nor was he expecting her to look anything like she did. When Knight-Commander Greagoir told him he would be assigned to two of the "older Apprentices" he was expecting those in their early twenties, not a young girl barely coming into womanhood.

He remembered being astounded by the floating open texts, hanging in the air like they were suspended by threads, obscuring the girl slightly from view. She was surrounded by books, scrolls, diagrams, dusty tomes open to reveal pages of sigils and lettering in languages he didn't understand, even though most Templars were fairly well educated and he was confident enough in his own intelligence.

At the time, it truly hit him how hard Mages worked at their craft; how their study was so essential to their training, and how complex and difficult it was.

The Knight-Commander cleared his throat loudly and the girl looked up over the lip of one of the floating books. They lowered to the table as if guided by invisible hands, and he could see her eyes narrow suspiciously at them from across the table.

"Apprentice Amell, a word, if you please," Greagoir annunciated; some of the Mages glanced back at him; his commanding tone obviously unnerving them a little. The girl dropped her quill and rose from her chair, not so much as walking towards them as _hovering_. It was fascinating to watch.

_This is a __**real**__ Mage_, was his first thought, and he supposed whatever preconceptions and boyish fantasies of what magic and Mages were, she filled a lot of them quite neatly. Constance Amell didn't seem human to him, just this other-worldly being on a plane of existence that he couldn't comprehend, and her young age didn't help either, nor did her whitish-grey hair that he noticed was probably an Amell trait when he met Leandra Amell some years later. Though she was powerful and probably incredibly dangerous, she was small and rounded and young; a child by any other standards had he not just seen her control the gravity of books like it was _nothing_.

"Apprentice Amell, this is Fontaine's replacement; Ser Cullen," the man gestured to him and then added to her, much to Cullen's recoil; "I _expect_ you to treat him with the same level of respect as you did Ser Fontaine. Is that clear?"

"How do you do," the girl courtesied, dipping her knee and gently tugging the sides of her robes outwards. He'd felt a surge of heat fly up to his cheeks at that; he was no noble and she probably had more power in her little finger than he did in his whole body; it didn't feel right for her to courtesy to him, not one bit.

At the mention of Fontaine however, he could see her grow sullen, her all-too-deep blue eyes developing a thick film of water, her pale cheeks flushing with hurt, splotchy patches of red.

"... Return to your studies," Greagoir said to her, and she flashed her eyes up to him one last time before making her way back to her desk.

"She's a decent sort, that girl," the Knight-Commander said, as he guided him out of the library, "hopefully she won't be any trouble for you. First Enchanter Irving coddles her entirely too much for my liking, however... Your next charge will be Apprentice Niall – a nice enough boy, but very unfocused and far too interested in fraternity politics."

After that, Cullen fell easily into the routine of Circle life. He usually had up to six charges, with Niall and Constance being his top priority, although he occasionally worked outside of the Circle and in the lands around Lake Calenhad, dealing with bandits or investigating rumours of ungoverned magic. It would be over a year before he would witness his first Harrowing, and since it went smoothly enough, the Knight-Commander made a point of assigning him to more and more as time went on.

He said that Cullen's presence seemed to calm the Mages; probably because he didn't speak to them like they were idiots, criminals, or that they were likely to burst into flame at the first available opportunity. At the time, he'd felt the Circle and occasionally other Templars were too hard on the Mages there. He never wore his helm unless out in the surrounding lands, and was always polite and mild-mannered when speaking with his charges and the other Templars.

That wasn't to say he didn't follow orders, he was just careful about how he handled certain situations, and he always had a soft, boyish heart.

When he started noticing his budding infatuation with Constance Amell was when things at the Circle started getting difficult for him. The way she excelled in her classes and casually used magic about the Tower was enough to garner moderate interest from him, and watching her filling out into something more mature as time went on awoke something in him that he thought he stamped down on before taking his vows.

He told himself that it would never happen, as if that somehow justified how he was feeling, as if it justified the nights spent aching at the thought of her kiss or the feel of her hips in his hands.

As if it justified the way his eyes would focus on her no matter where she was; a class, the library, the dining hall – how he managed to watch his other charges was a mystery.

It was not right to develop such feelings for a Mage, but even with that in his thoughts, there were so many times that he caught himself staring, blushing, smiling at her, and knew he was getting in far too deep.

The other Templars noticed. Knight-Commander Greagoir noticed.

Attending Harrowings of other Mages was fine, but it was considered a little cruel and undignified to attend the Harrowing of an appointed charge for a number of reasons. Some Templars wouldn't want to see them cut down, other Templars wanted to see it entirely too much. It left a bad taste in the mouth either way.

When he was called to the Knight-Commander's office one late evening, shortly before the fall of the Circle, he knew somewhere deep down that he was in trouble for his youthful emotions.

"She's too _young_, Greagoir-" he heard First-Enchanter Irving's croaking old voice from beyond the door. He pushed it open gently so as not to disturb them, but entered regardless; it would not do to keep the Commander waiting.

"You cannot keep putting this off, Irving. Each day she grows more powerful – what would you have me do? Just keep it on good faith that she can resist the demons without witnessing it first-hand?" The Knight-Commander's voice was harsh and loud. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence to see them argue, _they argued all the time_, but it was somehow different that evening. Irving looked lost and upset, and Greagoir looked ready to kill.

"Or is it that you're looking to pawn her off to the Wardens before she can go through her rite?" Greagoir accused, folding his arms. Irving boiled.

"How _dare_ you suggest such a thing," the First-Enchanter said indignantly, "I only have her best interests at heart. She _is_ too young and I will stand by that fact. You know how soft she is, and yet you want to throw her in front of a demon-"

"As an alternative to what, exactly? Let her simply carry on until she becomes possessed in her sleep? Powerful as she is, she will attract their attention sooner or later, if she hasn't already, and I will not have abominations running rampant in this tower. You speak of her kindness and youth, but have you considered what that would look like if she _were_ to become possessed?"

Cullen knew who they were talking about without even saying her name, and the bottom fell out of his stomach entirely. For the first time, he was faced with the reality of her mortality, and it terrified him.

Irving relented after a long, uncomfortable silence. "I see there is no dissuading you," he exhaled, "do what you must, then, and it will be her blood on your hands if she fails."

Knight-Commander Greagoir ignored the comment though his face grew cold and stony. He never enjoyed seeing the Mages fail their Harrowings, not even the ones he despised, and Constance was sweet and gentle and kind to everyone in the Tower. Her death was the last thing he wanted, regardless of Irving's poisonous words.

"Cullen, tell Ser Borin to rouse Apprentice Amell and then meet me in the Harrowing chamber. She will go through her Harrowing _tonight_," he looked pointedly at Irving, "and _that_ will be the end of it."

There was no reason for the Knight-Commander to call Cullen all the way from the first floor just to give him a message for Borin – it was Greagoir's way of telling him that he was very much aware of his feelings and he was not approving of them. Cullen saluted and left, his ashen face betraying the tight set of his jaw and shoulders.

It was a long trek to the Templar's quarters. His mind was blank and filled with cotton – he wanted to feel _something_ other than the bleakness of what awaited him when he considered his life without Mage Amell in it, but nothing came. It was terribly unfair that Greagoir sought to teach him such a lesson, and as he chewed on his trembling lower lip he cursed the man to the deepest pits of the Fade for expecting him to accept such punishment.

In a rare moment of insubordination, Cullen genuinely thought abut disobeying the command. He thought about bypassing Borin all together, going down to the Apprentice quarters and asking Mage Amell if she wanted to run away with him, go as far away from the Tower and the Chantry as they could. It was the first time he had ever really considered something so audacious and different, and it kicked a gleeful excitement into his veins-

But he didn't dare take the risk. Cullen did as he was told. He told Borin to wake Mage Amell, and then he made his shaken, terrified way up the the Harrowing chamber.

Greagoir placed a hand on his shoulder, his could feel the tight grip even under the plate there; "If she is to fail, you are to administer the killing blow," he said, glaring at him, _seething at him_, and he honestly thought he was going to vomit at the command. It was too much to ask, _entirely too much_, yet he unsheathed his sword all the same, quaking underneath his armour.

The man's lips thinned to a determined line, and he could feel him glaring burning holes into the back of Cullen's skull for the whole ordeal.

When Mage Amell entered the chamber, rubbing sleep from her puffy eyes and dragging a shaking hand through her tousled hair, he had never wanted to embrace her so much. He would have fought every single one of them, he probably would have died on Greagoir's sword, just to try and get her out of there-

But there was something sure and confident in her face, and that calmed him somehow – not in an arrogant, cocksure way, just... _confident_.

She was ready. To face the demon. To face _death_.

It was the fastest, cleanest Harrowing he'd ever witnessed. He held his sword to her throat and prayed and _prayed_ she would survive, and then she opened those unfathomable eyes, clear and uncontrolled and whispered the word _Valour_, before fainting into Borin's arms. Everyone in the Harrowing chamber breathed a sigh of relief.

Not a single person suspected that she would help that fool Jowan destroy his phylactery the next day.

Nor would they suspect her to be conscripted swiftly into the Grey Wardens.

* * *

_Cullen, _

_It would be my hope, though I am sure it is not, that you would not dwell any longer on what you said when I left the Tower. _

_Ten years is a very long time to hold on to old pains and regrets. When I found you atop the Tower, I had fought my way through men and women I once held in such high regard, battled a demon in the Fade for a fellow Mage only to witness his spirit become trapped as his body died in our world. When I found you, I saw the hallway covered in gore and heard your despair at the death of your fellow Templars and at no point did I ever hold you accountable for what you said. _

_We had both been through so much, you even more-so at Uldred's hands, we were both exhausted and angry and I am sure I said some less-than-kind things to you as well. I was lucky that I had escaped his revolt, but you had to endure what must have been a horrifying ordeal, and I understood that when I left the Tower that day. _

_Yes, I was upset, and I was angry and it hurt to see someone I once trusted turn against me and those I cared about, but I understood the reasoning behind it, and I know by what you have told me that this is no longer the case. _

_So I would ask you to put these things behind you. If it is forgiveness you seek, I forgave you a very long time ago. _

_\- Constance_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Notes:** My apologies for not updating yesterday. I was fussing and fretting over this chapter like you wouldn't believe.

It is long as fuck. 14 cock-gargling pages. I was going to split it into 2 chapters but then I thought - fuck it, it makes more sense as one cohesive one. So there you go. 14 pages of me rambling on.

Be warned that this chapter is violent and a little gory, contains mentions of a sexual nature, descriptions of torture, blood and death. Yeah I got kind of carried away...

* * *

As Cullen looked between the Grey Warden and Greagoir, who's face was contorted with such absolute fury that it was likely to melt stone, he wondered how everything could have gone so downhill so quickly.

The Warden Commander was suggesting he would take Mage Amell to Ostagar, not just for the war, but to be recruited into the Grey Wardens. The Knight-Commander was beyond livid; after helping her Blood-Mage friend destroy his phylactery and essentially aiding in his escape, he felt she was being unjustly rewarded instead of punished, despite what Irving was arguing to the contrary. He could see, however, that the Grey Warden was not going to back down.

He was going to take her away.

Mage Amell was shrinking behind Irving, her arms wrapped wrapped around her quaking frame, tears filling up her eyes. He knew she hadn't meant for Jowan's escape; while he knew nothing of her motives she seemed genuinely horrified at the revelation of his dabbling in forbidden magic – he hoped at least that it was all just some huge mistake. _It had to be_.

She never caused trouble, never spoke back, never tread where she wasn't supposed to be, she wasn't the kind of Mage who resented her captivity and it just didn't make sense for her actions to be as they were. _Maker,_ he took his eyes off her for a scant few minutes and then she was gone - the last place he expected her to be was in the repository.

"Greagoir, Mages are needed. _This_ Mage is needed. Worse things plague this world than Blood-Mages, you know that," Warden Duncan sounded very convincing when he spoke, and it only seemed to fuel the Knight-Commander's ire, "I will take this young Mage under my wing and bear all responsibility for her actions-"

"This _Mage_," and he said the word like he were spitting out poison, "does not deserve a place in the Order! A Blood-Mage escapes and his accomplice is not only unpunished, but is rewarded by becoming a Grey Warden? Are our rules nothing? Have we lost all authority over our Mages? This does not bode well, Irving-"

"Enough! We have no more say in this matter,"

The argument circulated back and fourth but it was very clear that the Warden was well within his right to recruit Constance, and was going to do so no matter what the Knight-Commander protested. Cullen felt a lurch in his stomach when Duncan insisted, wanting to say _something_ to perhaps ask him to reconsider; she was so young and inexperienced, surely it was unwise to throw her into battle with the Darkspawn?!

But then what kind of life would she have in the Circle after her transgressions? Would she be thrown into the dungeon? Solitary confinement? _Aeonar_?

"So... I am to be a Grey Warden?" She piped up, cutting across their debate, furiously rubbing the tears and Jowan's blood from her face with the sleeve of her robe.

Irving and Duncan confirmed it - Greagoir staunchly disapproved. When she looked to the Warden he could see that steely confidence that she exhibited in the Harrowing chamber return to her face; she was ready to go and fight at Ostagar, ready to leave the Circle behind. She pulled her shoulders up, tight and determined.

He wanted to say something, the words were there, on the tip of his tongue and at the front of his mind. _Take me with you_, he would plead to the Warden, _please. Don't take her away and throw her into a fool's war._

In the back of his mind he could see it; not joining the Wardens because he wanted to, but because he was charged with keeping her safe and now someone was trying to take her away like his role meant nothing. They would leave the Circle and that life behind, and he would stay by her side, protect her from fools like Jowan who sought to foolishly manipulate her soft heart, from jailers like Greagoir who would throw her in Aeonar despite her having just stepped out of line, just that once.

But he'd worked so hard to become a Templar; it was his life, and he would throw that away for... what? A never-ending war with Darkspawn? A painful death at Ostagar? A girl he couldn't even speak at length with?

He was going to step forward, his jaw was loose - he had to say _something_, but his feet wouldn't move and his tongue stuck to the top of his mouth, his mind went completely blank with panic. Amell gathered her hands in Irving's robes as she hugged him tightly, he could see the tears rolling down her face, "Th-thank you for everything, F-First Enchanter,"

Duncan's hard, old face was unreadable, "Come. I will give you time to gather what essentials you will need, but we must hurry if we are to get to the Forward Camp in time."

As she followed the Warden out towards the Senior Mage's quarters, her eyes flicked up to his briefly – he could see the apology, the hurt, the fear without her even saying anything. He was already so shocked by everything that happened that there was no point even attempting to say something to her, it would just be nonsense anyway.

She was leaving the Tower, probably _forever_, and as a free Mage. He was likely to never see her again, and with that thought in mind he waited until the Knight-Commander's briefing in his office was over, when Greagoir was angrily pacing and barking orders at Irminric to gather the others to track Jowan down before his trail went cold. Cullen shut the door behind him, his heart hammering and his blood running colder than ice.

"Blood Magic... _Blood Magic_! All of our prevention measures, and what were they for?! Years of work and service, sacrificed for two love-stricken idiots and one foolish little girl-"

The desk was overturned, scattering paper and scrolls everywhere. Greagoir was like a bull in an Orlesian filigree shop; full of rage and surrounded by very breakable objects. With the mood Cullen was in, if Greagoir had wanted to beat the shit out of him there and then, he probably wouldn't have felt a thing, and probably would have allowed it to happen.

"Sweet Andraste, what a bloody mess," the man exhaled, straightening to regain some of his composure, reaching up to squeeze the bridge of his nose between his fingers, "that Warden would have every last Mage in here running around at Ostagar, fighting in his war. The gall-"

"Ser," Cullen started, almost pleadingly, not knowing how much time he was going to have left, "if I may-"

"_What_ is it?" He snapped, and Cullen flinched.

Swallowing hard and gathering what little courage he had left, he asked; "Is this... really happening, Ser? Is this Duncan taking Mage Amell to join the Wardens?"

Greagoir sighed, "Yes, he very much is. And after she helped a Maelificar, no less,"

"But Ser," he found himself reasoning, and he didn't know if it was with himself or his Commander, "she's... she's too young. She's not even eighteen yet, and she hasn't been out of the Tower in years, she's certainly never seen combat. Is this wise?"

"You think I have any say in this matter?" Greagoir scoffed, "The Wardens can recruit and conscript whomever they wish, regardless of race, age and title."

Panic welled up inside him – that was the decision made. He would go and try to reason with the Warden, and if he could not be reasoned with then he would ask him to also recruit him as well as Amell. Dragging a young girl off to a war without any sort of protection was not a good idea, and he'd been in charge of her since he arrived at the Tower, was a trained and talented Templar and knew something of battle – _he could protect her_.

"I..." he found his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth again, so he looked at the ground, putting his hand on the handle of the door, "I-I will escort her out of the Tower..."

Cullen should have just left, because then perhaps he could have escaped his Knight-Commander's knowing, narrowed gaze. Greagoir looked at him in such a way that said so blatantly that he knew _everything, _why Cullen wanted to leave, what he was going to do, what his motivations were, and it cut a path through Cullen's determination to see Amell one last time before she left forever.

"The _Warden_ will be escorting her..." The Knight-Commander said before Cullen could open the door and take that step, folding his arms.

Cullen was faltering under that look, "I... she... she was under _my_ charge-"

The Commander strode forward and put a warning hand on his shoulder, looking at him coldly, "She is _not_ under your charge any longer. You will stay here."

It was an order to stay and he knew it, though it was never openly voiced. Cullen could face severe reprimands if he disobeyed and ultimately that was what stopped him from taking the risk. There was no guarantee the Warden Duncan would recruit him and if he was denied after discrediting an order from his Commander, the repercussions would be serious – so he stayed put as the Knight-Commander left the office with that knowing look on his face, shaking his head.

The man could have easily granted his request, but he refused because he knew what it meant, and he was not about to allow a Templar to abandon his duty or his vows even if it superseded so much suffering as time went by.

And Cullen was purely convinced that he would never see Mage Amell again.

Some weeks passed; he paid little attention to the absence of time as he mechanically preformed his duties, going about his day-to-day routines and not being able to shake the fact that there was a huge part of it missing. Other Templars and some of the Mages occasionally shot him pitying glances, but said nothing. He was given no further appointments, so he kept with his five charges as best as he could, feeling like there was a hole ripped in the library where she used to read and study.

When the first murmurs of news came from Ostagar, Cullen didn't want to believe them. The Mages stationed there were making their way back and would confirm if the stories were indeed true, so he held off on listening to any other nonsense until their arrival.

Uldred's return pulled no punches; Loghain's forces had retreated from the massive horde, their King was dead, and with a dreadful sadness Cullen's knees buckled when he heard that the Wardens had betrayed their King, and were all slaughtered by the Darkspawn.

He staggered back to his quarters after he heard, his eyes wide like coins, his jaw loose, and sank to the floor on his knees after he quietly shut the door behind him, slamming his gauntleted hands against the hard stone and pressing his forehead to the cool surface of the marble. His heart had plunged into his stomach and continued to weakly beat there as his mind turned over the simple fact that his fears had become realised. _She was dead_.

_I loved her_, he remembers thinking, quite foolishly at the time, whether it was the truth or just the pain of his anguish, he didn't know, but still the thought persisted; _I loved her_.

He was aware he barely knew her, that he had only managed to speak to her a small handful of times and it was awkward and innocent, but that didn't take away from the fact that he cared very deeply for her, and she was gone in the blink of an eye.

Uldred wanted to call some meeting or other to discuss how King Cailan's death would impact the Circle and what Teryn Loghain was proposing, but Cullen was barely listening when the announcement was made the next day. The others stayed respectfully away from him when they saw his ashen face and bloodshot eyes, their expressions full of knowing pity. He attended to his duties watching a young Mage called Llewin during a lecture while the meeting went on, his mind tumbling over words he'd wished he said to her before she left, of the simple things he used to enjoy about her.

He would never see her soft smiles again, never watch her glowing with pride when she succeeded with a task or an assignment again. Perhaps if he hadn't taken his short time with her for granted and actually worked up the courage to speak with her, she wouldn't be dead. He took his eyes off her for five minutes and she was gone; perhaps had he made more of an effort to talk to her, she would have to come to him about Jowan instead of doing something so foolish. If _only_ he'd-

The windows and doors in the Tower rattled on their hinges when there was an almighty **bang**, followed some seconds after by muffled yells and screaming, some floors above. The Templars in the room exchanged glances with each other as the younger mages looked around fearfully, startled by the noise.

"Stay here," he warned them and their Enchanter, nodding to Drass to follow, "we will take a look and see what that was,"

After some years attending Harrowings, Cullen had only really seen bare glimpses of Demons and Abominations. Not every Mage survived their Harrowing, and when the unthinkable happened there was only a scant few seconds of change in the Mage before they were struck down, their head sliced cleanly off. He'd seen eyes turn purple, the beginnings of horns start to sprout from temples, the bubbling of blood come gargling up from a Mage's throat, but never anything past that. They never let the change go far enough that the Mage fully turned, for their sake as well as those in the Tower. It had never been a pleasant sight, but he rested easier knowing that they stopped it before it got worse.

So when he saw the … _thing_ round the corner as some screaming Mages fled from it, his blood froze still in his veins.

The _thing_ was monstrous, all chewed swollen flesh pulled across what once must have been the body of Mage, it's one hideous eye rolling around, looking for an easy target. His training told him not to falter, to unsheathe his sword and run the beast through so it didn't have any time to try to tempt him with its wiles, but he was so frightened that he couldn't even get his hand to pull out his sword. It tightened in a vice-like grip on the pommel as his breath caught hard in his throat.

The _thing_ saw him, gesturing outwardly with its massive clawed hands, and behind it from around the corner they spilled fourth like a river, spreading gore and corruption where they trod.

It was only for Ser Drass's battle-cry that he moved at all, realizing that if he didn't it would mean his death. They fought their way to the right and barricaded the small room at the corner of the corridor, in what he vaguely remembered was Enchanter Wynne's quarters. Breathing hard and fast, they exchanged worried glances as the screaming got that little bit louder, and made a plan to get to the Harrowing chamber as quickly as possible. From what they could tell, that was where the loud bang originated from and therefore would be the source.

They would save who they could along the way, but without a number of Templars present there would be no nullifying whatever it was that was summoning Demons.

Their ascent upwards however, was short-lived. Taking the less-used back stairs was ultimately their downfall, as that was what Uldred was using to send his horde down through the Tower. Cullen had thought he'd seen real Blood-Magic when Jowan incapacitated the Templars upon his escape – he knew when facing an elven Mage he vaguely recognised as she cast her spell before he had time to _reach_ and stop her, that he hadn't known true power until the veins in his arms felt like a thousand, stabbing needles driving into his bones.

He cried out, his sword and shield falling from his hands, arms slack and useless and in so much pain he would have bitten them off just stop it, and it wasn't long before he passed out entirely, wonderingly gazing at the ceiling, a verse from Benedictions lingering in the back of his mind.

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow_

* * *

When he came to, it was by force. It felt wrong, _strange_ to be dragged from conciousness into the waking world, the light burning his eyes, his head pounding. The world swam into focus slowly, his body felt limp and heavy – it took all of his strength just to move his arm from the floor up to his face to block the light from his vision.

Uldred's face moved into his view, standing over him with a vacant look that Cullen noticed didn't seem all-there. His memory returned with a sickening swoop of terror, kicking adrenaline into his veins-

But he could barely move.

"Well now," he'd never liked Uldred's well-bred, arrogant voice, and liked it even less while it was ringing tauntingly in is ears and in the back of his head, "looks like you've finally woken up. The first of many, if I have my way. Why don't you just-" a heavy, icy cold hand pressed against his forehead, "-_relax_."

If he could have focused and pushed the Mage's hand away, he would have. He would have stood and drained the mana right out of him, then cleaved the man's head off in one fell swing of his sword, but whatever magic Uldred was using was draining him of all of his strength so his muscles just uselessly, weakly twitched in his armour.

A sharp pain began from the back of his head and spread until it felt like a fire all the way across his skull; with it he felt memories and images being pulled like someone turning the pages from a book. Most unnervingly was the sensation of having no control over it, he could only lie there while his eyes rolled back and bits and pieces were pulled from him at random-

_-A fire in the barn. The summer was hot, father would be so angry if they didn't put it out soon lest it spread to the coups-_

_-His mother's belly was getting bigger; she sort of waddled around, grimacing at every step and holding it like it wasn't even a part of her and was about to fall off at any moment. Mia said they would be getting another brother or sister soon. She said she hoped it was another girl-_

_-The Lyrium tasted the way the fields smelled after a storm – metallic and warm, and on it's way down his throat he staggered as the sensation took a hold of his body, trying to hold himself upright as a humming song **burst** inside of him, filling his head and his veins and his bones with sweet, beautiful **music**-_

-"_That's why you need to tilt your shield up," his trainer said, smirking while Cullen held a hand to his bleeding mouth-_

_**-Just look at her**, he thought, **she's radiant**. He was watching her in the Library again; she chewed the tip of her quill and looked up to the ceiling, the speckled dust hanging in the air illuminated in morning light cast an unearthly glow about her – **I have never seen anything so beautiful. Merciful Andraste, thank you for this- ** _

That startlingly clear image and all of the emotions associated with it; awe, love, loneliness, regret, anguish, they near blinded him with their clarity. Like taut strings pulled tight they wrenched on the feelings and images until similar ones started to appear, and he struggled briefly with them, but was confused and frightened at the prospect of someone sifting through his inner-most thoughts without his consent, baring them to the world.

_-That boy, Jowan... he wasn't a good influence on her. He made her secretive and gossipy; he could see it by the way she whispered and hid her smile behind her hand-_

_-She was doing that... that **thing** again where she pulled her bottom lip with her teeth. He shifted uncomfortably by the door, trying to will away the erection-_

_-He tried not to laugh as she pulled herself up onto the first shelf of the bookcase to reach the tome on one of the higher shelves. **Maker** but she was short, and he wouldn't help her. Not because he was embarrassed, but because the sight was just too entertaining-_

_-With her plaguing his thoughts the way she was, he knew there would be no way to sleep as soundly as the three other Templars in the room, snoring softly like they didn't know what torture he was going through. He placed a hand over his own mouth as the other dove under his breeches, and thought about her on him, working him until he was spent, with him grabbing and squeezing those sinful hips of hers as he drove himself into her over and over-_

-"_Would you really have struck me down?" She asked, shifting her grip on the book clutched to her chest, her eyes boring into his in a most distracting way. The colour was so rich, so vibrantly, brilliantly deep blue-_

_-He wondered if his mother or his sisters would like her, he thought as he watched her place her quill down and wring out her hands. She'd been writing for what felt like hours – she was nothing if not dedicated to her task, surrounding herself with books and scrolls of Maker-knows-what, writing until the candles burned low and one of the servants stopped by to change them. Would his mother and father like her, or even approve of the fact that she was a Mage? Probably not, but the thought of his mother doting on her like she did his sisters when they were growing up brought a smile to his face-_

_-She smiled at him on the way out of the class and he felt... a sort of fluttering excitement in his chest and stomach. It was simple, but its honesty jarred him and disarmed him in a way that he felt himself return it without really meaning to, and his face burned at the moment of brief vulnerability-_

He barely felt Uldred pull his hand away – other than the white-hot pain lancing across his head, everything else went ignored. He rolled onto his side, moaning and twitching and jerking, a rivulet of blood pouring out of his nose and rolling across his cheek and jaw. When his eyes stopped rolling back they wanly focused on the hem of Uldred's robes; in his peripheral vision he could see the armour of other Templars in similar positions; curled into themselves and bleeding from the nose.

"What is with you Templars and your carnal desires for Mages?" He heard the man wonder, "Have you got nothing better to do with your time than to leer and lust after your charges? And _this_ one-" he felt his body being dragged across the floor like someone attached a hook to his hip, "lusting after Irving's little pet student? Uldred remembers _that_ one. _Pathetic_."

The dragging stopped; it took every iota of strength that he had to roll onto his side, planting a hand on the ground to try to lever himself up. His head felt like a ton weight, his shoulders and neck struggling to keep it upright.

"Come, we will leave them to the Demons here," Uldred stepped over what he was presuming by the hair colour to be Drass, "if they haven't broken by morning, we will check on them again."

With that, the Mage left, and it took an age for him to regain what strength he could to finally get up off the floor. His body and his head ached, his armour weighed heavy on his bones but he didn't dare remove it. With trembling hands, he roused the other Templars there, and tried to convince them to look for a way out of the nightmare.

They were imprisoned on the top floor next to the Harrowing chamber. Drass and Marianne wanted to find a way out, but the others argued amongst themselves; one said that Greagoir had sealed the doors and wasn't letting anyone else downstairs, that he had abandoned them to their fate, another wondered if there really was any hope of escaping Uldred's clearly superior power, and another – now that he had seen what Demons and Abominations were capable of – didn't want to risk moving.

It was a few painful hours of heated arguing and whispered prayers before they felt the first telltale tendrils of Demons corrupting reality. He'd been furiously reminding Ser Tommon of his duties to the Circle when he felt a prickle run up his spine, his _reach_ automatically spreading out, _searching_ – and then he felt it.

_Desire. _

They all went quiet as the sensation took over swiftly; he felt a burn rising in his cheeks as his cock became mercilessly hard and swollen, aching to fill something. When he turned away from Tommon in his embarrassment, he could see _her_, his gaze instantly fixed as the room went suddenly silent – leaning against the open door, smiling, the soft swoop of her hair caressing her cheek.

"... M-Mage Amell?" He called out disbelievingly, raising his hand to reach out to her.

"Who are you talking to, Cullen?" He heard Drass behind him say-

\- But when he turned to address the Templar his world shifted from what he knew in the Tower to the wide, balmy fields surrounding Honnleath.

Constance grabbed his hand, pulling him forward on unsure legs, "Come on, I see a barn! We will rest there,"

What had he... just been doing?

Gazing up at him with those limitless eyes, he felt his breath catch in his throat at the way the wind tousled her hair and the end of her dress fluttered, exposing curvy, pale legs.

He staggered as she tugged on his hand; she was giggling as he nearly fell right on his face into the tall grass. The breeze whipped up wisps of wheat-grass as the sun beat warmly down on them, making the ripple in the fields glimmer in the light. His vision was warm, fuzzy at the edges, but she was crystal clear, and Maker she had never looked more beautiful in his life.

They made their way to the barn she had pointed out; it was abandoned as far as they could tell, and she shut the door behind them, leaning against it with a coy grin, "Looks like no one is here. _Good_."

He had been doing something important... something _terribly_ important. _Maker_ if only he could remember...

"I know you're eager to visit your family," she said, toying with the shoulders of her dress, "but I wonder if perhaps _I_ could have some of your attention, for a moment..."

She pulled a shoulder of her dress down, showing off the edges of delicate collarbones and clear, unblemished skin and Cullen nearly choked on his own spit. He rushed forwards and grabbed her hands, stilling the movement, pulling the edges of the material back to where it belonged, much to her amusement.

She sniggered and held on to his hands, one shoulder of the dress slipping down to reveal the skin there, "Is something wrong, dear?"

"N-no... I..." he stammered out, blushing hotly when he found himself getting _very_ eager to take up her offer, "let's not... get ahead of ourselves. I can't remember... I mean... how did we end up here?"

Her brows twisted disbelievingly and then she smirked up at him, shaking her head, "Did you hit your head or something?"

He honestly had no idea how to respond, he was just so... _aware_ of the proximity between them and the feeling of something sizzling there that he was left speechless. With lowered eyelids, he could feel it as her gaze dropped to his mouth and she tilted her head to the side, studiously, and gently pried her hands from his grip.

"Kiss me," she whispered, her hands slowly cupping his jaw, and he felt himself leaning towards her, his hands tilting her head back so her could get a better view of her parted lips. The words echoed in his head, thrummed in his veins, his vision wobbled at the edges but her mouth was at the epicentre of his focus, her hair was slipping through his fingers, her breath was hot on his face.

"_Kiss me_," it came out as a demand, and he felt it in his body more than he heard it from her lips. He hadn't even seen them move and it frightened him.

_Maker_ but he wanted to, wanted to more than anything he ever wanted.

_But something was wrong._

"... I can't," he said, tightening his grip on her hair so she couldn't move towards him.

_Just give in_, he thought he heard her say, but he felt it in his mind, in his body and knew it wasn't real. _It couldn't have been real_. Cullen closed his eyes and shook his head.

He felt her rip away from him, and when he opened his eyes to look at her the barn was blanketed in the blackness of night. She was walking backwards towards one of the support beams, her eyes as black as Hell, and glared at him in such a way that he felt his skin break out in a cold, terrified sweat.

"_You will capitulate,_" she hissed, disappearing into the darkness.

He closed his eyes again, and when he opened them he could see Drass's hand snapping his fingers in front of his face.

"Cullen? _Hello?_ Are you in there?" The Templar said, one of his hands was on Cullen's shoulder, shaking it slightly. He shook his head again and pinched the bridge of his nose as the headache came-on.

"I'm alright, Drass. I'm here."

"Sweet _Maker_, what happened there?"

In reality, but a few seconds had passed, but in the dream he'd travelled across stretching fields to reach a barn with a woman he knew was dead. The Demon, whatever it was, was extremely powerful, and if they had any hope of surviving its tricks they would have to work together.

For a time, they tried cleansing the area of magic, pulling at the edges of their cage with their abilities – but the magic seemed limitless no matter how forcefully they pulled or pushed. Then they tried aiming attacks at it, first one by one, then all at once, but that also failed. As time, energy and patience wore on it was becoming increasingly apparent that if they didn't conserve their stock of strength, food, water and Lyrium, they weren't going to last the next few days together.

As people, both Templars and Mages, were brought into the Harrowing chamber, they all cringed at the sounds echoing out of there, wondering when it would be their turn and with that thought dwelling between them, it further amplified the paranoia.

And all the while, the Demons played tricks on their minds.

Cullen watched in horror as, one-by-one, they all fell in some fashion to their Demons' infernal whisperings. The first two were taken by Blood-Mages; dragged out of the cage by their ankles, screaming and begging for mercy. Then Marianne started to change on the third day, slowly at first but he could see her eyes turning black, could hear the blood bubbling in her throat when she spoke. She put herself to her own sword before it could go any further, sobbing the Chant of Light before it got cut-off half way through as she fell onto her own blade.

Tommon became an abomination in order to escape, his contorted form laughing manically as he rushed past the open door, the sound of his crazed giggles echoing up in the silence.

The door stayed open as Uldred's Blood-Mages travelled about the Tower, occasionally dragging screaming Templars and Enchanters with them into the Harrowing chamber. They largely ignored the presence of the trapped Templars in the glowing cage, but Cullen feared they were either going to leave them there, or use them for some horrifying experiment. He didn't really know what was worse.

The Demon that wore Mage Amell's face wandered in and out the whole time; he realized that if he kept his gaze on it for too long it would try to tempt him with its charms. It toyed with its robes, did all the little things he'd always found so attractive about her, like the way she brushed her hair behind her ear or bit her lower lip, or walked with that sway of her hips – he would close his eyes and say a verse from Benedictions or Transfigurations, and it would disappear.

They day they came to take Drass was the day he almost gave in. That day he'd experienced pain beyond all measure from the Blood-Mages; pain so powerful and raw that he couldn't think of anything past wanting it to stop, but if he capitulated it meant that he was no longer his own, and he refused to be a toy for them and their monsters. His blood felt like fire, his bones were needles that stabbed through his muscles at every movement – there was nothing beyond it other than his death and he was never granted that peace. When they knew he was not going to break, they released him from their grip, and Cullen sank to the floor in a boneless heap, Drass beside him, gasping for air.

He watched Drass's gaze fix on something beyond their cage, his weary eyes lighting up with hope, and instantly Cullen knew that the man was gone. He angled his head around from the floor to see past Drass's shoulder, to the tall, horned Desire Demon waiting beyond, beckoning him with her hand.

"_Yes_," he heard the man whisper, clawing himself forward with trembling hands, his legs uselessly limp.

"Drass, no. Don't..." he tried to say through his parched throat, mustering the strength to grab a weak hold of the man's ankle, but his hand was kicked away by an armoured boot. He watched Drass crawl over to the Demon and kiss her feet with reckless abandon, until he was lifted away through the open door.

And then Cullen was on his own.

He didn't know if they were doing it on purpose, leaving him relatively unscathed despite the torture. He didn't know if it was them or the force of his will that was stopping them; after all, they had been told in their training that they should never give in to the temptations of Demons and Blood-Mages, even if threatened with death and he staunchly followed that rule.

What he presumed was a few days had passed since Drass's departure; he'd since ran out of Lyrium, water and food, and other than the awful sounds travelling out of the Harrowing chamber, the Tower was relatively quiet. The first day, he wondered where the Demon was, the second he wondered if it even existed in he first place, and the third he was sure that he'd been left alone – the prospect was equally as terrifying as it was relieving.

Because being left alone or forgotten about meant a slow, painful death from either starvation, dehydration, or Lyrium withdrawal.

Unless Uldred died, in which case he could escape, but that prospect seemed unlikely.

Left to his own devices, Cullen became so consumed with rage and anguish and hatred that he hadn't even believed it when Constance Amell eventually came to his rescue. Her beautiful image had been defiled in his thought so many times, so many different ways, used as a tool against him to keep him compliant, used to try and coerce him into relinquishing his body, and he'd kept it shamefully locked away and hidden for so long that the thought of what was happening being punishment never escaped him.

For his sin, the Maker had reached out to punish him.

It didn't make any sense – _she died at Ostagar!_ Even if she seemed to be whole, her intelligent eyes and demeanour so true to the real thing that he was momentarily surprised, he couldn't believe it.

He had been _so sure_ that she was the Demon, coming back to try and trick him at a very vulnerable moment. He tried so hard to banish her; he prayed and he commanded that she leave him, but when he looked up from his clasped hands she still gazed down at him through the cage, her eyes alive with concern.

And he felt nothing but contempt.

"_I am real; and I am here to help you,"_

* * *

Cullen jerked awake so badly he nearly fell out of his bed.

Breathing hard and clutching his chest, he sat bolt upright, kicking the covers off him, feeling the thin sheen of sweat lining his skin, The early morning light was just beginning to filter in through his windows and his roof, his room was cool and breezy, and in the silence he could hear the gentle chattering of birds in the courtyard.

He wasn't in the Tower anymore, he was safe.

_Maker_ what a nightmare.

With a sigh, Cullen swung his legs over the edge of his bed and gripped the side of the mattress. He didn't often dream of what happened in the Tower with such clarity, but when he did it usually ended with him screaming and reaching for his sword.

… But things were different. He supposed because the dream had finally reached it's conclusion, which was Warden Amell's liberation of the Tower, that his dream ended on that note of contempt, _yes_, but was also vaguely brimming peace. Despite all of the awful things that happened in the Tower, when he was freed it filled him with a stillness that he didn't even realize he was missing. His guard had been up so high that when he was finally starting to let it down, _just that little bit_, it relaxed him somewhat.

It wasn't that it ended on a good note, just... that it ended. It was _something_. It was _change_.

Standing, stretching out his stiff muscles, Cullen let out a long exhale. Despite the dream starting so viciously, he felt very rested and peaceful, and it brought him some comfort to think that it was a part of his life he was able to put behind him. The sting was still there, in the back of his mind, but there was a lot of comfort in knowing that it was passed.

There was comfort in knowing that it wasn't part of his reality any longer.

Pulling on and strapping up his armour, he decided to get an early start on the day, and headed down to his office to tackle what edicts he left from the previous night. Warden Amell's letter was still sitting open on his desk, and he couldn't help but grin at it a little.

So may things left in the past... his apology was another way of putting what happened behind him. Difficult as it was writing it, he was ultimately glad he worked up the courage to put pen to paper – and it paid off with her reply. The letters were proving incredibly cathartic, in a sense, that he could finally re-visit all of those parts of himself that he tried to lock away and look at them with a calmer eye.

He could look at his past less critically now. It still hurt, still turned his stomach, still plagued his dreams and his thoughts, still filled him with dread and shame, _but she had forgiven him, _and knowing that she didn't hold what he said against him was a balm on a wound he didn't know existed.

Cullen picked up the letter and read it again, a sombre, yet pleased feeling warming him from the inside out. _So many words unspoken between us... _

He pursed his lips at that, the words of his reply finally coming to him in a moment of courage and inspiration._ No more_

He pulled a sheaf of vellum out from his desk drawer and flipped open the top on his glass pot of ink. What was the point of keeping it in, pretending it didn't happen and letting it fester? Wasn't that what catharsis was all about; the purification of emotions?

Cullen was fully aware that, with what he was about to write to her, he would not expect any sort of reply, and it could potentially destroy what they were doing with their correspondence, but he _had to say it_. It was his honest truth, and as he wrote it down on paper each word felt like a poison being drained from somewhere deep in him. There were so many things he wanted to say, _and she forgave him_, so many things he had always wanted to say but his foolish, shy youth and his rage and his shame and his sorrow had prevented him from _finally_ admitting it to her.

If he didn't take that chance, how would he ever know? If he didn't tell her, how could it ever progress? If she didn't accept it, then he lost a potential friend and it would hurt but he could at least say he took that said what should have said years ago in the Tower, but if she _did_...

_Well... she probably won't..._

When he was finished, his heart pounding and racing like it did when he fancied the way she smiled at him, he folded the letter and stamped it, leaving it at the top of the pile for his messenger.

* * *

_Constance,_

_Your last letter filled me with such peace. I wish I could adequately put onto paper how much I thank you for everything you have done, not just with saving my life, but also finding it in your heart to forgive my transgressions, but I simply do not have the words._

_When I said that I do not dwell on thoughts of the Circle, I will admit that was not entirely true. I do have many good memories of my time there, though I have not kept in contact with as many former Templars there as I should have. As far as I know, the former Knight-Commander Greagoir retired not long after I left for Kirkwall, and while he was ultimately a strict and often humourless man, I had a deep respect for him and I am glad to think that he spends the rest of his days in the good hands at White Spire._

_Most of the good memories that I have were, admittedly, about you. The Templars in service to the residents of the Tower were appointed charges, and most of our duties involved watching them diligently to be aware of any sort of corruption or spreading of forbidden arts – I suppose I was rather lucky in a sense that you were under my charge in that way, as I had never seen you do anything other than work work and study._

_Unless you were exceptionally good at hiding your circulation of forbidden magics, in which case I was clearly not watching you closely enough._

_I admit I harboured some youthful infatuation towards you. The short time that I spent overseeing you gave me some small insight into your potential power and it is no wonder that you went on to eventually save Ferelden from the Blight; I had always found the sight of your successes rather compelling._

_A rather fanciful, adolescent notion on my part. I do not know if you were aware, though I could scantly speak with you without stuttering over my words like an idiot._

_So what memories I am fond of from the Circle were mostly about your successes and the quiet evenings when I was on watch over you. You studied so very hard and the sight never failed to be both relaxing and wresting, if you could forgive my lack of professionalism._

_To know that you are not angry with me has helped me let go of a lot of anguish I suffered at the Circle. To have carried it around for so long, and now finally being able to apologise to you has done something for my soul that I cannot explain, other than to thank you for it._

_I hope this letter finds you well,_

_\- Cullen_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Notes:** Okay I am usually not that superstitious... like, at all. But this chapter 13 will actually be the death of me.

My apologies for missing my deadline - my weekend and subsequently my week was super busy and I've scarcely had the time. Here it is anyway, for your perusal.

I was trying to get across the rather adolescent feelings of receiving a compliment from someone you like, so much so that I accidentally wrote Cullen like a 14 year old girl. Hence why this chapter took so long; I re-wrote a good portion of it to stop him from sounding like a prepubescent fop, waxing poetic and literally (LITERALLY) swooning.

Someone fetch him a fainting couch.

* * *

The trip back from Halamshiral was, for all intents and purposes, probably the most exhausting experience Cullen ever had to deal with in his life and he was glad to see the back of the Orlesian empire once and for all. When they finally made their way into the pass through the Frostback Mountains on horseback, he breathed a long sigh of relief, knowing he was out of that Maker-forsaken place and into more familiar territory.

He was never one for politicking or The Grand Game, scheming Orlesians and their petty squabbles. Cassandra summed it all up rather succinctly; _Yes, let us treat murder, corruption, and deceit as delightful amusements. How __**wonderful**__. _She was just as disgusted as he by the whole affair, and they were both relieved to be rid of the thing.

The talk about her dancing with the Inquisitor on the balcony spread like wildfire – he wouldn't have believed it had he not seen the high cut of her cheeks pleasantly pink for the remainder of the night.

Cassandra was certainly an interesting woman, and for all the effort and time she put into the Seekers and the Inquisition, it warmed Cullen's heart to see her so... _happy_ with the Inquisitor. The talk of their budding relationship was increasing over time and he wasn't entirely sure who or what to believe, but seeing them together confirmed at least some of what people were saying. Personally, he was happy to see them find something in each other during such a tumultuous time, and it was getting more than a little obvious that their growing fondness was turning into something serious.

It was much nicer and much more tangible than the _propositioning_ nobles at Halamshiral. If Cullen were to base his entire experience with relationships and sex on that night he would happily plan on choosing celibacy for the rest of his life. The gall some of those nobles had... _honestly_.

If not for Josephine's idle conversation he was sure he would have gone completely insane. She was busy keeping her sister out of trouble and occasionally fending off advances, but none to the extent that he was. Of course, the Antivan thought it was hilarious.

Leliana swanned about like she was made to be there, talking with acquaintances like she'd known them her whole life, and he supposed, having been raised in Orlais, she looked to be enjoying herself. He did not mistake the icy coldness in her eyes however; he'd seen her genuinely enjoy herself and her company before and could spot the difference – he wondered if she was aware of them herself.

Upon his arrival back at Skyhold, Josephine saw it fit to start asking him about his lineage for _interested parties_ in Orlais barely a few moments before he'd even stepped foot in his office. Baulking, he told her to fling them in the fire, his face filling with colour at the notion. They would have to be disheartened if they ever found out he was from a spit of land just outside of Honnleath, although he had his doubts about that rather hands-y gentleman if his humble upbringing would deter him.

He slammed the door after Josephine smirked and giggled, fuming. What utter nonsense – he wasn't going to entertain it after just escaping from it. His desk was rife, _rife_ with scrolls, letters, maps, pages, updates and reports and as exhausted as Cullen was from all the travelling, he stared at it with a sort of horror he usually reserved Demons crawling out of the Fade.

Grumbling, he circled around to the left side of the desk and examined the towering stack of scrolls, rubbing his eyes. He could probably leave them all, start on them in the morning and get a day of rest in after travelling for so long. His legs, back and hips ached from riding a horse, he hadn't really slept during the last leg of the trip, and even on the way back he'd been hounded by runners and messengers, looking for his input or a signature on reports and missives.

Rylen had put together a box of reports from Sahrnia; they were slowly taking down Samson's army from the inside, halting their production and decreasing their numbers. It would only be a matter of time before they honed in on Samson's base; it was something he should leave for the morning but the itch to read the reports was very tempting to scratch, especially knowing how close they were to tracking the Ex-Templar down.

But then... he supposed he really should rest-

A page in the middle of his desk caught his eye. It was on its own, but the handwriting on the front was one he didn't recognise. He winced at the thought of it being from an _interested party_ from the Ball, and picked it up gingerly between a thumb and forefinger, turning it over to reveal-

_A Grey Warden insignia stamped in the wax._

Cullen's stomach turned. Not so much out of excitement, more out of nerves. The handwriting on the front wasn't Warden Amell's, but it was folded in such a way that suggested something was inside, tucked in at the edges like a package. He tore through the seal, opening up the thick paper to find another letter held inside, this time with an unmarked seal and Warden Amell's neat, purposeful handwriting on the front.

His heart started hammering – truly he was not expecting a reply, in fact he wasn't even sure if he wanted one. After what he wrote to her, he had fully accepted that she was probably not going to write back, either out of indignation or disgust, perhaps even the idea that she felt the situation had come to a conclusion – that was the way _he_ certainly felt.

He'd said what he wanted to say – he hadn't really given much thought to what she would possibly say back to him...

* * *

_Commander Cullen, _

_This was handed to me through our channels. I understand you are in Orlais at present. I have left it here for you, I didn't want to risk carrying it around with me and it potentially getting destroyed – didn't trust anyone else with it. _

_Hope you understand, and that this letter reaches you. _

_\- Warden Tanner_

* * *

That was what the thick parchment wrote, in Tanner's large, scrawling handwriting. He would have to thank the Mage later for not giving it to, say, Josephine or Leliana. Maker knows they wouldn't waste any time tearing it open and reading it, nosy as they were about the contents of said letters.

He realized his hands were shaking ever so slightly as he held up the letter from Warden Amell, much in the same way they did when he received her first reply, but for an entirely different reason. _I admit I harboured some youthful infatuation towards you – _he _said_ that, and yet he hadn't really thought about how it would make her feel, just how it felt to him to finally say it to her. He'd missed his chance all those years ago, but now that he'd finally said it, whether to her face or on a page... _Maker_...

He didn't know if he wanted to read it or throw up. Perhaps both.

It took him some time to get his quivering thumbs underneath the wax seal to open it, his mouth set in a grim line, sitting hard into the chair behind the desk to stop the trembling in his knees. When he finally managed to crack open the seal he squinted through slitted eyes, both terrified and enthralled at the idea of what it could possibly say, and sucked in a bracing breath.

* * *

_Cullen, _

_To know that you can forgive yourself from my previous correspondence truly warms my heart. _

_I would never hold such a thing against you; I would call it trivial but to do as such would be to invalidate how you have carried it around with you for so long, so knowing that you can now let this go is good to hear. Please know that you owe me nothing, I am simply happy that you can put this to rest. _

_Although I am afraid it must be said, your previous letter brought quite the blush to my cheeks. _

_In the Circle, there was little for a Mage to do besides work and study, so naturally I threw myself into my tasks as it was usually all I had. I saw no point in lamenting the the idea that I could not leave without reams of paperwork and several waivers to grant me permission. Knowing that working hard could potentially earn me the right to travel within the Circle was an interesting benefit to otherwise enjoyable research that I wasn't about to pass up, and to know that you enjoyed the sight of it is rather flattering. _

_At some moments I was aware of your "infatuation"; the more gossipy members of the Circle occasionally teased me with the notion, and I will admit I did nothing to deny them. Would it be sagacious of me to say that I also enjoyed the sight of you?-_

* * *

It was at this point that Cullen suddenly stood up fully out of his chair in shock, grasping the letter tightly in both hands like it was threatening to suddenly snap shut so he couldn't read the rest, and continued reading with a single-minded determination that meant he didn't even notice when Ser Rylen entered his office and announced himself. He held his hand up to silence the man, his concentration riveted to the page.

He still hadn't let out that breath he was holding.

* * *

_I also found myself quite awkward and stuttering around you, but I suppose I was very young at the time, and unused to a man's affections or indeed the idea of them. We occasionally spoke, but I was usually so absorbed in work or so at ends on what to say to you that I felt quite the foolish young girl, so please do not think it was all just you, trying to make awkward conversation. I was aware that you had taken Ser Fontaine's place after his death; over time I became used to the change and I suppose it did help that I found you quite handsome. _

_Jowan and a few others would tease me about how you felt an awful lot, but I didn't always believe them. Knowing that they were right, even ten years later, still does not fail to make me blush._

_And I suppose that knowing my working so hard made you watch me that much more closely was a benefit I never really sought to enjoy. I wish I had known then, I would have taken the opportunity a lot more often. _

_Would it be prudent for me to ask, and please feel free to disregard this question if it offends, if perhaps there is some small part of you that may still feel the same?_

_I truly hope I haven't completely put my foot in it, _

_\- Constance_

* * *

When Cullen finally looked up from the letter, his jaw slack and his eyes wide, Rylen was approaching like one would approach a child with a dangerous weapon in their hands.

"You alright, Ser?" He said, but his voice sounded so tiny and far away.

_Would it be sagacious for me to say that I also enjoyed the sight of you? _

He tried to say yes to Rylen's question, but no sound escaped his mouth other than a low, thin whine; honestly he wasn't sure if he was alright, or if he ever would be again. He looked to the page, and then back at his Capitan, as if that would somehow convey the utter shock he felt, his hands trembling and his face ashen. Rylen's hard, masculine features were twisted in concern.

… _over time I became used to the change and I suppose it did help that I found you quite handsome..._

It was just too unbelievable. There was no way... absolutely no way! He was dreaming, he had to be, it was the exhaustion or the withdrawals and he simply read the letter wrong, or was taking something the wrong way, _surely_. He perused it again, quickly, and looked over at Rylen who was grimacing his way, unsure of what to do or say. But what was there to say?

What was there to say about it...?

He gaped, something between a wide, disbelieving grin and a frown spread on either corner of his mouth. All those giggling nobles in Orlais only managed to give him a headache. A few choice words in a letter from Warden Amell and suddenly he was overcome with a fit of the vapours, fainting like an Antivan bride with news of her betrothal dowry. Maker... _Maker_ she... was actually serious, wasn't she?

She actually wrote that she felt the same to what he felt for her. Or at least something similar. She... thought he was handsome. She tripped over herself when trying to talk to him. She potentially watched him as much as he watched her, when she wasn't working or performing her other duties as a Circle Mage, and he'd never known. Those short years in the Tower and it never once crossed his mind that she could potentially reciprocate.

He'd never even suspected that she was attracted to him, of all things.

"They... really are love-letters, aren't they?" He said wonderingly, his mind conjuring up an image of Warden Amell sitting in an Inn somewhere in Thedas, writing to him by candlelight, fussing and blushing over her words, crumpling up pages and starting over to get them perfect. It was an interesting, and entirely romantic prospect.

Though it seemed impossible before, the sudden idea of it becoming a reality knocked the wind out of him, caused his heart to hammer excitedly against his ribs.

"I'm sorry, Ser?" Rylen asked, raising a brow, still looking at him with that concerned demeanour, his frown deepening when Cullen let out a short snort of laughter.

All that gossip, all those arguments he had, with the Mage Warden Tanner, with Dorian and the Inquisitor, with Josephine and Leliana – he denied any and all romantic inclinations and at the time it was the truth... and yet there he stood, with her letter in is hands, blushing like a fool without a trace of irony.

Even all the times he had tried to convince _himself_ that he had no intentions towards her other than rebuilding a tentative friendship, only to have her respond, not only favourably, but in a way that called for more... _Sweet Merciful Andraste_.

His spine tingled at the prospect.

With the excited, nervous energy the letter provided, Cullen started to pace his office, all traces of exhaustion from the travelling to Skyhold forgotten. "It _can't_ be..."

"An interesting read, Ser?" Rylen eased, raising a brow, "I don't think I've ever seen your attention so wrested before."

Cullen chuckled, "If only you knew..."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with the Warden Commander... would it?"

A silence stretched between them as he felt the tips of his ears burning and Rylen folded his arms, smirking, "Judging by the colour of your face, I'm just going to go ahead and assume it is,"

He liked Rylen; a practical man, strong and relatively affable. When he was a member of Starkhaven's Templars he was efficient, driven, and on-point with the aid they sent to Kirkwall and with their combined efforts they saved what was left of the city before eventually joining the Inquisition. He had a well-worn sort of face that had seen battle, the occasional speckle of grey dusting the stubble lining his jaw and interestingly styled goatee that he noticed a few of the Starkhaven Templars liked to wear.

"I never took you for the gossiping type, Captain,"

The man bowed his head slightly in respect, "Forgive my lack of professional decorum, Commander, but it's all the men have been speaking of, as of late."

Cullen rolled his eyes, folding the letter in his hands, "_Of course _it is. Maker forbid my private affairs would stay that way. Now, did you need me for something?"

They spoke of the situation surrounding Sahrina and the quarry there; Cullen invited the captain to walk along the barracks so he didn't have to keep looking at the mountain of work on his desk, keeping the letter clutched tightly in his hand as they made their way out to the right, towards one of the turrets. Rylen informed him of the situation worsening there, and the men's efforts to control the Lyrium-addled giants cropping up in the area.

The topic of conversation drifted to the Wardens as he concluded his verbal report, and then eventually to the Warden Commander, as the man pointedly looked at the letter in his hand. With the confused, hopeful, ultimately innocent feelings of fondness growing in his chest, Cullen admitted somewhat to Rylen that he hadn't intended for their correspondence to turn romantic, and still he was at ends if they indeed even were, but it seemed that there were many things left unsaid between them. He spoke vaguely, without going into detail of the Circle or his boyish crush on her; he didn't think he'd ever really told anyone before explaining the situation to the Inquisitor and Rylen was no exception, despite how much he trusted him.

The Captain, being a former Templar, related to him somewhat in a way that Cullen supposed only people devoted to their previous lives could. Rylen purposefully avoided romantic encounters, at first because of his profession, then because as a member of the Inquisition and Cullen's second, he was simply too busy. He admitted he was unsure of what to say, though with a twist of a smirk he said that it seemed to boost the morale of their troops and Warden allies when they spoke of it – Warden Tanner seemed to be the culprit in that regard.

Maker but he was going to flay that obnoxious Mage alive...

"I can't say myself and the troops haven't noticed the improvement in your mood. Like it or not, there seems to be a lot of them rooting for you," The Captain informed him, staring over the barracks walls to the mountainside beyond.

He threatened to assign them more duties at that; if they had the time to be prattling on about his supposed love-life then surely they didn't have enough to do. The captain could see his threat was idle however, and said that it would be rather counter-intuitive since his _supposed love-life_ was giving them something to be happy and hopeful about. Cullen waved them man off after that, saying he would catch up with him properly after he got a decent night's rest.

The idea that the exchange of letters was boosting his troops' morale was both endearing and horrifying to the Commander. On one hand, he was happy that they were speaking of something that helped them take their minds off their dangerous tasks and duties, but on the other, he wasn't entirely sure what was going on between himself and the Warden Commander anymore, and they were speaking of it as if it was a fact.

Which it absolutely _wasn't_. Despite her letter, he was not going to make any sort of assumptions, even if she admitted her attraction to him.

And her question... _Would it be prudent for me to ask, and please feel free to disregard this question if it offends, if perhaps there is some small part of you that may still feel the same?_

What did it mean? He understood that she wanted to know if he still harboured the same or similar feelings he did years ago, but he didn't understand _why_ she wanted to know. What purpose would that information serve?

Would it be because... she was hoping for something more from him...?

The thought punched him right in the gut, left him winded and shaking – _was she hoping for more_?

Judging by her letter, it wasn't entirely impossible that she was. He was rather awkward about the topic of love or romance but he wasn't _stupid_. Other than the idea of something more between them or simply wanting to feed her ego, what would such information gain?

And was he willing to tell her the truth? Was he willing to _admit_ the truth?

Entering his office, Cullen unfolded the letter and read it again, a grin overtaking his mouth when he got to the end, as she wrote that she hoped she hadn't "put her foot in it". He pressed the page against his burning face, burying his roasting cheeks into the parchment. It was entirely inappropriate, childish and foolish, but he couldn't help himself. He'd never felt so flattered and praised in his life, not even with those overly touchy-feely Orlesian nobles at the Ball.

What on earth was he going to write back to her? A page with the word YES written in massive lettering? There was no doubt in his mind that, even after ten years he still felt quite enthralled by her, but how was he supposed to put that into words without sounding desperate, or worse; _creepy... ? _Was there some sort of handbook on wooing women without coming across like a love-starved lunatic? What if she really didn't feel the same, and _did _just want to feed her ego...?

Did he even want to woo her? Could one even woo Constance Amell, Ferelden Warden Commander of the Grey, Hero of Ferelden, Arl of Amaranthine etcetera etcetera? _Maker_, he was bad at this...

Sitting down, Cullen thought of a million things to say, but at the same time he had nothing. How was he supposed to tell her what her letters meant to him? How was he supposed to tell her how, even after a decade he still dreamed about her on occasion when he wasn't spiralling into a nightmare?

How did he tell her that, now that he'd been contacting her, he felt for her even _more_ than he had at the Tower?

With a sigh, he pulled out a sheaf of vellum and a few pieces of cheap parchment for some drafts. Honesty had served him well with her up to that point and he supposed, now that he was in the thick of it, now that he was finally saying things to her that he wished he had all those years ago, to break the streak would probably be the moment she stopped, and the thought of her ceasing contact with him was too painful to think of.

Biting his lip, Cullen started writing.

* * *

_Constance_

_I can assure you that you have not, in fact, "put your foot in it", as I am unsure what "it" would be. Whether referring to our correspondence or not, you seem to have done quite the opposite. _

_Had you disclosed to me your feelings in the Tower I am sure I wouldn't have found it any easier to talk to you, nervous of my own shortcomings and dedicated as I was to the Templars at the time. I honestly had no idea you felt that way about me. Could that be why you confess to blushing as you read my previous letter?_

_If you were stuttering or awkward around me, I cannot say I noticed at all. Then, I suppose I was usually so aware of how bad I must sound to you that I hadn't even considered that you felt the same – the thought had never really crossed my mind. I had always been in awe of your confidence, power and beauty that the thought of you actually reciprocating that felt like an impossibility, a thought I rarely even gave time to. To hear that you harboured some affection for me is bringing a blush to my face, let alone yours. _

_It appears that there are still a few things left unspoken between us. Ten years is a long time, time enough for two people to grow out of their awkward attempts at speaking to each other at least, although you should know I can scarcely believe I am actually writing this down and sending it to you. Quite the change from the awkward boy who used to watch you practice sigils in the back of the library late into the evenings. _

_Thinking of an answer to your question has left me pondering how I felt in the Tower compared to how I feel now. I cannot say I feel the same now as I did then, because this writing to you has somewhat added to the rather sentimental image of you in a way I don't really have words for. As much as I am close to other members of the Inquisition, writing to you has been more comforting and delivering than I can say for speaking with the people here. _

_I suppose I could say I do feel the same, if not more strongly now than I did then. _

_And I would ask you the same question. _

_Yours, _

_\- Cullen_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Notes:** Gah, another deadline missed!

I won't make a habit of this, it's just been quite a busy couple of weeks.

Here is the next chapter, fluffy and dialogue heavy as it is. I write Sera much the same way I would speak normally; swearing, punctuating sentences with "like", "yeah" and "right". Bad habits, I know, but I think I make it sound rather rustic.

* * *

_Cullen,_

_To think that after such a long time that you can still turn my face scarlet is incredible, and frankly unbecoming of my position as a Commander, though I cannot say I am not enjoying these exchanges._

_In your letter you said that you felt more strongly for me now then you did back in the Tower because of our recent communication and in some way I could say I feel something similar. I had not expected to come into contact with you after the Blight; I returned to the Tower some months after the Archdemon's attack on Denerim, only briefly for some research purposes, to find that you had been referred to Greenfel. I was under the impression that our paths would not cross again._

_I was very attached to Ser Fontaine before he died. We did not speak overmuch as he was usually quite busy with his duties, but if not for him I probably would not have such fond memories of the Tower, or indeed come to call it my home. I was so wary when Greagoir introduced me to you, especially given how young you were. Rather unfairly I compared you to him a lot; it was only when I started seeing you as your own person that I truly began to regard you as such, rather than wish for someone no longer with me._

_And for your information, I __liked__ the handsome, awkward Templar who used to watch me practice my sigils in the library, much as you like to self-flagellate. Funny as it is to look back on it now and remember how inelegant we both were, they are still times I remember fondly, and it was never something I sneered at you for. I daresay I felt rather empowered by the thought of your attraction to me – as I said it is a power I wish I abused a lot more often. _

_Now that some time has passed and these letters have been written, I find myself growing fonder of you with each iteration. Receiving these letters over this time has been one of the few shining lights in all this darkness – there was a moment when they felt like all that kept me going on this journey. I wish I could adequately explain the excitement that I feel when I receive one, or tell you how many times I have written and re-written this very letter before sending it, as well as previous ones. I had not expected our correspondence to go so far, nor to have these feelings for you rekindled in such a manner._

_But I do feel as you do – it __is__ different and somehow more tangible than the affection and attraction that I felt in the Tower. Perhaps it is the passing of time or the timing of the moment when I recognised your name and reached out... I cannot say for certain what has changed and when, if much at all. _

_Maker, but I cannot believe I am writing this, either. The embarrassment, as well as the catharsis, is mutual._

_Be well,_

_\- Constance_

* * *

Cullen had been restlessly dreaming when a soft noise from down in his office pulled him from his sleep. He stilled, opening his eyes to the dim light trailing up from the opening for the ladder, up through the floorboards and barely illuminating his room. Flat on his back, he slowly, carefully slid his hand under his pillow, and grasped the dagger hidden there with a solid grip.

He wasn't sure what the noise was, but there was no mistaking that he heard it. Getting up as quietly as he could, he crept over to the ladder with the dagger in his hand, and glanced down into the room beyond. The front door was still shut and judging by the lack of breeze the rest of the doors seemed shut as well, but someone had taken the liberty of lighting a few candles over in the direction of his desk. He narrowed his eyes.

There was the noise again – it sounded... scratchy? Like someone tearing a page... or more like a sniffle. He braced a hand on the edge of his ladder, leaning down to try and get a better look at the room beyond, his heart racing.

Over the pile of paper on his desk he could barely see a cap of blonde hair – it looked like someone was sitting on the floor beyond, or perhaps on their hands and knees, searching for something. They would be disappointed; he kept nothing of real value in his office unless they were looking for information, and even then he sent his messenger with more sensitive documents to Leliana and Josephine. There was no point in keeping such things in his office, so what were they looking for?

The person, whoever it was, _definitely_ sniffled that time, and he rose a brow in question. What in the Maker's Great Light were they-?

Over the movement of the head and the jagged, jaunty cut of the hair and the tips of two long, pointed ears, he immediately bared his teeth. _Sera_.

As he slid down the ladder with the knife still in his hand – he never took chances, no matter who they were – the elf yelped in fright and pages went flying. She was indeed sitting on her haunches on the floor, paper scattered about her like she'd been rooting for something, her hair and clothing messy as though she'd just crawled out of bed.

He planned on being angry, he planned on grabbing the elf by the back of her clothes and flinging her back into the tavern where she belonged and telling her if he ever caught her rooting through his desk again he'd let the Mages experiment on her, but what he didn't plan for was to see her tear-stained face gazing balefully up at him in his silent fury, nor for the silence that passed between them to be broken by her bursting into tears and letting out a long sob of anguish.

"You stupid, great _twat_!" She wailed, standing with a few pieces of paper clutched in each fist. He dropped the knife to the ground, thinking something was terribly wrong with her that he hadn't picked up on, but recoiled when she ran at him and punched him hard in the shoulder, grabbing on to the collar of his shirt.

"Sera, _what_ in Andraste's name-?!" He placed his hands over her fists wringing in his shirt, his shoulder stinging from where she'd hit him-

"You couldn't have one stupid moment, could you? What, General Uptight can't even write one stupid dirty thing to his lover pissing around in Thedas? You just had to be all sad and sombre like is love is so friggin' dour, yeah? Couldn't even have fun with _that_, could you?!"

Cullen gritted his teeth, his hands tightening over the elf's fists, "Sera, what are you talking about?"

The elf pointed to his desk, "I'm _talking_ about your stupid love letters – if you can even call them that – to the Hero of Ferelden! Your soldiers have been gossiping about them like they're not even friggin' real, like they're some... stupid romance novel or some shite," she let go of his shirt, gesturing at the mess on the desk, "so I come down to prove them wrong, yeah? Show them your just as silly and dirty as the rest of us, yeah? But it's not like that, is it?"

Still half-asleep, the Commander rubbed his eyes and sighed deeply through his nose, trying to quell the fury building in the pit of his stomach, "So, let me get this straight; you broke into my office at this unholy hour to try and prove to my troops that their gossip is true?"

"No, _stupid_. I'm trying to prove to them that you're _human_," she returned to where she was at the desk and flopped heavily to the floor, where she made a messy circle with the paper around her, "Spend enough time at the top and people forget you're _people. _They talked about it like it wasn't even real, you know? Just wanted to show them it was... but it's like... it's just _sad_. Maybe not sad..."

He watched her arrange pages into a semi-circle, focus on one in particular and pick it up, tears welling up in her large eyes, "... How am I supposed to show them this super personal shit?"

Still unsure what the girl was actually on about, Cullen shoved down the rage and indignation he was feeling in the wake of her looking like she was about to burst into tears again. If living with his sisters for most of his childhood was any indication of what was going to happen, turning her out on her ear probably wasn't a good idea considering her vengeful nature, and he never really could stand the idea of being faced with a young woman crying her eyes out in his presence without feeling more than a little empathetic. He would have to meet her on her level – and it certainly sounded like, despite breaking into his office and rooting through his personal effects, that she was _trying_ to help him in her own misguided way.

Instead he chose to step across the barrier she'd made with the pages, his bare feet freezing on the cold stone, and sat down heavily beside her, leaning against the front of the bookcase.

Maker but he was tired. Symptoms that had abated for the past while were returning slowly; he could feel it in the sting and stiffness of his muscles.

Sera looked up with round, reddened eyes like she didn't really believe what he was doing, and threw the letter back down again. A long silence passed between them, she drew her knees up to her chin and glanced down, away from him.

"... She really loves you, you know?"

He let the sentence hang in the air, not really knowing what to do with it, but could neither argue it's foolishness or agree.

After some time, while he considered what she was saying, he shrugged and said; "And what makes you think she does?"

Sera snorted loudly, "Because she fucking wrote it down, obviously?! Not in so many words, but it's like... it's there."

He knew that at no point did Constance ever write in one of her letters that she _l-loved_ him, Maker knows he read them enough times to be pretty certain she hadn't, but Sera said it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, and while annoyed that she'd read them, the outside perspective also gave him a moment to truly consider how it must look.

"I didn't... like, _mean_ to go through your things," she said, "I just wanted to find something funny, or dirty, 'cuz then it would show your troops you're just like them, you know? I didn't think they'd be all sad and sweet like that. I'm... I'm sorry, yeah?"

Scratching the back of his neck and sighing, he waved the apology away and said it was fine, even though a part of him still felt like murdering her. The letters from Constance were around them on the floor, and it truly hit him then just how many there were. He'd saved them _all_. Templars weren't allowed to keep personal items that could compromise their rationale, but since leaving the Order he'd taken to keeping more and more sentimental things around him. The scattering of letters were a testament to how the connection between him and Constance Amell had grown; the thought of it perhaps being a bit more serious than he originally thought only occurred to him when faced with the evidence of his ruthless hoarding.

It was strange to think – even if he didn't agree – that they hadn't seen each other in ten years and yet, _and yet_ there was _something_ there, if the pile of letters was anything to go by.

"So, what were you sorry for? She said she forgave you for something you said, but, like, what was it?"

"I said some rather unkind things to her during the Blight," he answered, "a lot of which was unworthy of me."

"Yeah but, like, _shit_ that was ten years ago,"

"Does that really matter? I still regret what I said. It seemed like a good opportunity to apologise,"

Sera shook her head, "See? This is what I mean, yeah? It's like... why'sit have to be all sad? No wonder your troops think you're scary."

At that, Cullen frowned and looked at his hands. _Scary_ was not the image he wanted to give across at all. In control and calm and collected, yes, but not overbearing or frightening – although he supposed that was a difficult task when battling his addiction and handling his ever-growing workload. And if they were scared of him, by proxy so was Sera – or in her own words, not real or _human_.

Abstract as that was, he could see what she was referring to. He'd heard her lament how nobles would put themselves atop pedestals and convince everyone around them that they were more than they really were, becoming their titles and using it as a shield or a mask. Commander was his title, but it wasn't _all_ he was. He didn't want her to see him that way. He hoped Amell didn't see him that way.

He chewed his lower lip in thought, smirking when he remembered some of the more embarrassing moments from the Circle, and elbowed the sulking elf in the ribs before admitting, quietly; "... You know... once, when I was a Templar in the Ferelden Circle, I tripped over a candelabra because I was so distracted by the Warden Commander's backside. It set another Templar's skirts on fire,"

He watched the scene unfold behind Sera's eyes, her disbelieving grin growing along with it, "... Wait, are you serious? You set another Templar on fire because of _arse_?"

Cullen shrugged, Sera cracked up laughing.

"Wait, seriously?! Those stupid skirts the Templars wear, up in _flames_," she wrapped her arms around her stomach, chortling, "I can't believe it!"

"It's true," he smiled crookedly as she rocked back until she was lying down on the floor and gazing up at the ceiling, "tell the troops if you want. I doubt any of them will believe you."

He stayed sitting, twisting around slightly to look at her out of the corner of his eye. She got a good laugh out of the rather embarrassing and unfortunate memory. The Templar in question refused to speak with him for weeks after the incident, he'd heard from Carol that most of his leg hair had been singed off before a passing Mage put the fire out.

"She had a nice arse then, yeah?"

"That she did," he said, blushing furiously, knowing she couldn't see it.

"I knew you were just people,"

"Well, _yes_," he pushed, "I do have a life outside of the Inquisition, you know."

The girl raised her arms, gesturing to ceiling, "I know, right? You just go on like a bloody noble sometimes. Look like one, too. I know it, but your men don't. Maybe you should think about reminding them sometimes, get stupid with them, _I dunno_,"

Cullen bristled; "... I look like a noble?"

"Yeah, like, you've got nice hair, like, you take care of yourself-"

"And _that_ makes me a noble? I'm from _Honnleath_-"

"Yeah, well, I'm just sayin' like you don't have to get pissy, right?"

He rolled his eyes, wondering why that was ever in doubt. As the Commander of Forces, he was really only doing his job and a lot of that included putting the fear of the Maker into the more lacklustre troops – if that made him seem frightening, intimidating or inhuman then that was just part of the job – nothing he could really do about it. As Commander, there was a certain amount of _commanding _involved.

That didn't mean he didn't have his moments of utter stupidity or embarrassment, or moments of clarity and, yes, even moments of romance. He was sure Rylen would never let him live his last letter from Amell down...

"You gonna write her back or what?" Sera sat up, ruffling the hair in her fringe that had fallen back.

"I will eventually," he replied.

"Ah-huh, and what are you gonna say? _You gonna tell her you fancy her arse_?" She giggled while he nearly choked on his spit.

"I don't think that's really any of your-"

"_Psssh_, are you gonna try and go all General Uptight on me now? I've already seen your stupid letters, I told you I'm not going to steal them and spread them around, _sheesh_."

Between breaking into his office and putting bees in his favourite training dummy, he wondered vaguely why he even tolerated the elf to such an extent, and he supposed it largely had something to do with her age, and the fact that she was really reminding him of his sisters. His sisters never went so far as to attack him with _bees_, but there were more than a few pranks on his behalf.

Cullen folded his arms, glowering, "I will write back. I... haven't really thought about what to say yet,"

_But I do feel as you do – it __is__ different and somehow more tangible than the affection and attraction that I felt in the Tower. _He wasn't going to lie and say it wasn't an admittance, that she didn't tell him that she felt that way then and does, in fact, at present. He was just unsure where that left him. Where that left _them_.

The elf rolled onto her knees and glared at him, picking up Constance's most recent letter and shoving it in his face, "Duh?! Tell her you love her you idiot! Frig but you noble types are daft-"

He snatched the page out of her hands, "I'm not a noble. I told you, I'm from Honnleath, _barely_ considered a town in Ferelden, and I can't write _that_ – _not _that it's any of your business."

Something changed in the girl's features then, and somehow it was worse than her teasing and swearing and nonsensical gibberish. She looked at him like, while disbelieving, she also kind of pitied him, "But... like, don't you? I mean, what are all these letters about then?"

"... It's... a lot more complicated than that,"

Part of him wanted to tell her to shove it, the other wanted to impart some sort of wisdom about how not everyone could just come out and say such things. Much as Sera was sure of herself, she couldn't expect the world to follow such a black and white set of rules, and there was so much grey between him and Constance Amell that he didn't even know where to begin.

"Sure, _complicated_," she said, rolling her eyes, "everyone says that, but it's because of fear, right? I mean, I read all of these letters, especially the last one. She sounds like she's pretty into-"

"That's _quite_ enough," he interrupted her, his cheeks and ears burning hot, and smoothed out the letter in his hands busily as he wasn't sure what else to do, lamenting the elf's abuse of the page "perhaps you should return to your quarters instead of badgering me,"

Since Amell's last letter, he wasn't sure what to write back at all. She said something about how the letters were helping her in some way, suggesting that they were even keeping her alive and moving, and he had no idea how to respond to that. It left him feeling both empowered and powerless; on one hand he was happy that they were doing something for her on a deep level, on the other - was she in danger? Could he help her? He wished he had more information - it frightened him to think that her life was in peril.

Now that she was telling him she felt similar, that odd hopefulness in his chest came on in full swing, overtaking everything. It was almost surreal.

And Sera was not helping him think straight about it.

"You _are_ scared," the elf said, "… have you ever done this before?"

"Done _what_?"

"Written a dirty letter before?"

"I'm _not_-"

"Oh go on, just tell her you like her arse," Sera pushed, grinning evilly and decking him in the shoulder again, "trust me. Better than all this sad shit, am I right? Look, you wanna keep going with the serious sell then go ahead, but what's wrong with a bit of flirting, right?"

He gaped, trying to think of something to retort with that didn't involve picking her up by her ears and throwing her over the barracks. Was he... really being too serious? Did he really come across as a noble when really he was just some nobody from the backwaters of Ferelden? Was it _just_ Sera or did his troops and the rest of the Inquisition think that way too?

And how did he even... flirt? Yes, he did enjoy the idea of Constance Amell's backside but how was he supposed to put that into words without... coming across as a fool or a creep? Should she even know in the first place?

"You gotta, like, leave stuff to the imagination," she continued, "like, suggest, yeah? Keep it open ended, otherwise you'll just scare her off-"

"Sera," he interrupted her with a hand, developing a headache, "why does this interest you so much?"

She shrugged, sniggering, "Well, first I wanted to just get the dirt on you, but like, _no dirt_. Now it's like, _can_ there be dirt? I mean, there's potential there, you just have to take the chance. I mean frig I've got nothin' here, might as well have a bit of fun, getting you cozy with the Warden Commander's arse-"

"_Sera_," he pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing when the image unbidden popped into his head.

"What? This is the first I've seen you not being General Uptight, and you're fun when you look like you're going to burst into flame. You're all shy, yeah? You think you can't treat her right?"

When his face fell, so did hers, and another silence descended over them. In a manner, it was true; he didn't know if he could treat her right, if even he even deserved her affections in the first place. His weak attempts at telling her the truth - which he supposed could be taken as some form of flattery or flirting - were getting him into a situation he didn't know if he could, or even should, handle.

He supposed it was a sort of shyness, admittedly. What if he messed it up, now that it was starting to wade into unfamiliar territory? What if he wrote the wrong thing, or was getting the wrong end of the stick? Too many foreign outcomes, not enough strategy.

Sera picked up Constance's most recent letter and looked down at it, her eyes shining, "The way your soldiers talk... and not just them, right? The Inquisitor, Dorian, some of the Wardens; they're all talkin' about this because they think you can. They like, care n'shit. I mean, they think you can, you should too, right?"

How he never managed to overhear all of the intriguing gossip about himself, Cullen would never know, but knowing that so many people in the keep had such faith in him, however misplaced, was rather flattering. They were spurring him on in their own ways, cheering from the side-lines without directly interfering and though it was irritating and embarrassing, it was also quite endearing. Such a strange change from how the gossip between him and Amell in the Tower was looked on with disdain, or treated as taboo, and now there were people actively telling him to take a chance, to flirt or fall in love.

It was a strange, jarring change.

Cullen sighed, shaking his head and throwing up his hands in defeat, "I don't know what you want me to say."

The elf adjusted her position on the floor, relaxing in a way that said she'd accepted that she wasn't going to get any more out of him and smirked, "Right, right, _whatever_. You want me to help you? Give you like... advice or some shit?"

He barely held back his derisive snort, thinking how he would rather impale himself on his own sword, "I think I would rather you didn't break into my office anymore... or find any more creative uses for_ bees_,"

"Are you sure?" She waggled her eyebrows, "I've got lots of tricks, right?"

When he glared at her in his confusion she smirked, dropping her brows-

"I'll show you how to treat her right... I just need a peach. A _ripe_ one."

* * *

_Constance_

_I can certainly relate to the embarrassment you feel; I can't believe I mustered the gall to write these things to you, but I felt that they must be said since I had missed my chance years ago in the Tower. _

_What you heard when you returned to the Tower was true; I was referred to Greenfel after the Blight to "level out" as Knight-Commander Greagoir put it. After the events in the Tower, I was a mess. I found no reprieve there, and eventually I requested to be sent to Kirkwall. Despite everything that happened, it was the change that I sorely needed, I am just sorry I did not get to see you one final time before I left, knowing that you were keeping an eye out for me. _

_Arguably I probably wouldn't have been the best company then, but the thought is nice. _

_The way you speak of Ser Fontaine makes me wish to know more about him. I suspect that Greagoir was close with the man; he mostly refused to speak of him when pressed, as were many of the other Templars there so I cannot say I know anything other than his name and rank. To have left such an impression on you speaks much for him. _

_How you came to enjoy the sight of my stumbling mortification around you I will never fathom. Call it self-flagellation if you wish; I am more than aware that I acted quite the love-sick fool around you and how foolish it was, as I am aware of some of my more ridiculous moments in your presence. Did you know I once set another Templar on fire because I fell over a candelabra? So enthralled I was by your presence that I hadn't even realised how distracting you were until an other man's skirts were on fire... __honestly__. _

_Although I cannot say I do not enjoy the thought of you thinking I was handsome. It is nothing if not interesting, to say the least. Possibly best that I did not know in the Tower, however. I had enough trouble looking you in the eye as it was without you "abusing the power" you had over me._

_Your last letter gave me some moments pause, however. While I am more than elated that these letters between us are somewhat dear to you, I cannot help but get the feeling that you are in a dangerous place. I understand that you cannot divulge you whereabouts, but I do hope that you are well, and as safe as you can be on your travels. _

_That is not to say that I don't have faith in your abilities. I saw first-hand the kind of raw magical power you possessed in the Tower and it would stand to reason that in the ten years since, that could only have grown._

_Still, I wish for your safety. _

_\- Cullen_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Notes:** Well well, lookie here! Actually on time, this time!

I have always loved the friendly relationship between Morrigan and The Warden. When the Dark Ritual came up, it really felt like Morrigan wanted to save the Warden as well as "fulfill her destiny" and such shit. I just wish it had gone a bit better, especially for Alistair. Cringe-worthy.

* * *

The meeting in the War Room was trying, to say the least. Since their raid on the Shrine of Dumat for Samson, Cullen was giving his recount of the incident to the other advisers; the Red Templars' supply lines to their Lyrium was cut, their base of operations destroyed along with their tools and notes taken for the Inquisition. Dagna was working on something to destroy Samson's armour, and more than ever the Inquisitor felt ready to take on Corypheus's General.

It was a victory, and an incredible one, one that could very well turn the tide of the battle to come in the Inquisition's favour. Though the joy and pride was quick to fill him to the brim, Cullen hadn't seemed the same since he returned from the Shrine.

The potent Red Lyrium there left a horrible set of side-effects on his already Lyrium-starved body and mind, and he was finding it terribly difficult to concentrate.

The tea that Constance Amell sent to him was a gift from the Maker. When he'd returned to Skyhold he could barely walk, his muscles were coiled with no release, his head pounded so badly that the moment he returned he crawled into bed, tied a belt around forehead and pulled hard on it whenever a wave overcame him, just to quell the ache. As a last resort he tried the not-entirely-unpleasant tea, and barely made it back to bed on wobbling, dizzy legs.

It knocked him out cold for a solid five hours of sleep, and when he awoke he found he could stand, the headache had dulled over the day until it disappeared entirely, and though stiff, his muscles didn't ache and burn as they usually did.

Cullen had taken it every night since; bringing it to bed with him since the first night he barely made it to his room before blacking out completely.

As far as pain was concerned it worked as an excellent analgesic. It did not, however, help with some of the more persistent symptoms and sufferings of withdrawal, like his loss of speech, rampant paranoia, nightmares and weepyness. Though it did put him out like the light snuffed from a candle for a few hours, any other sleep he tried to get after that was riddled with nightmares so bad he often woke-up screaming.

It was something; it was certainly more than he could have ever hoped for, and he was sure that without it he would have probably been out of commission after their raid on Samson's base.

Corypheus's forces were retreating to the Arbor Wilds, the Chantry wanted both Leliana and Cassandra to travel to Val Royeaux for consideration on the next Divine, and on top of all of that, Blackwall had gone missing - Leliana suggested he left to pursue a murder trial in Orlais. The meeting went well into the evening, and as more and more pieces were added to table, Cullen couldn't help but feel a little overwhelmed and _more_ than a little excited.

With the Tevinter Magister's army on the defensive, they were gaining the upper hand at every turn. More and more Ex-Templars were joining them, and recruits and members of the faithful arrived on the hour. Small doubts about their successes still lingered - after all there were still so many unknown factors - but he'd never felt more sure of their inevitable victory.

They parted for the evening when he finished his final reports. Snuffing out the candles on their way out, the Inquisitor yawned widely and said he was retiring. Both Josephine and Leliana still had work ahead, and were returning to their positions. He could still hear the hum that started when he first entered the Shrine of Dumat ringing in his ears, and as he toyed with the leather gloves on his hands he felt distracted by the want for Lyrium and that humming even more.

"… _Commander?_" He jerked when he noticed Morrigan had been addressing him, and turned around to face her as she bolted the door to the War Room shut.

"My apologies," he shut his eyes and shook his head, trying to will the noise away, "did you say something?"

"Yes, I addressed you multiple times, in fact..."

"I'm sorry, my mind was elsewhere. What do you need?"

The woman smiled at him, guarded and unreadable, "I was wondering if I might speak with you a moment?"

Inwardly, Cullen winced. He hoped this had nothing to do with that mirror, Maker knew they'd argued about it enough already. The Elluvian was dangerous and despite what Morrigan said, he didn't like the idea of a potential gateway to the Fade sitting in their fortress, even if she assured them it was under control. The idea of having it was fine, but having it in their stronghold was perhaps not the greatest plan.

He inclined his head towards Josephine's office, "… Very well. What would you like to talk about?"

They walked towards the Main Hall, the dying light dimming through the windows so the candles cast an eerie glow about the place. He could see Varric thumbing through a book by one of the fireplaces. Solas nodded to him as he strode in from the entrance towards his office, carrying a box of what looked like maps.

"I wanted to ask you about the Ferelden Warden Commander," she said, leading him towards the entrance to the Gardens, and he followed albeit reluctantly, "from what I hear you seem to be the foremost authority on the matter,"

Cullen folded his arms, his mouth twisting in contempt at her suggestive tone, "If you would like to believe the idle gossiping about the Keep, then perhaps I am,"

"Leliana tells me you have been writing to her, is this not correct?"

"… I have been, yes," he replied, as they stepped out into the Gardens and he hung back slightly, wondering what she was doing. She turned to face him, a smirk twisting the corner of her mouth upwards.

"An intriguing thought," she said, "that the Hero of Ferelden would stay in contact with the Inquisition Commander of Forces after what one would presume was originally a professional exchange... How do you know her?"

"… I was a Templar in the same Circle; she was one of my charges for a time, until she was conscripted into the Wardens. She recognised me by name when exchanging contracts for our alliance with the Wardens. I have been keeping her up to date with recent changes with Corypheus and his army,"

It wasn't _entirely_ a lie - initially that was what their correspondence was about, as well as reminiscing about either side of the Circle. He didn't trust Morrigan however, not even with information outside of the Inquisition's movements, so he wasn't about to tell her the whole truth. While he was aware of her previous association with the Hero of Ferelden, he wasn't about to start giving her any ammunition, not without first knowing the nature of their relationship and Leliana hated speaking about the witch at length.

"Try to mislead me if you wish," she scoffed, "your _blush_ speaks more of your "correspondence" with the Warden Commander than your words do."

Quickly pressing a palm against his burning cheek, he found it growing hotter at her accusation, and sighed through his nose.

"What do you want, Morrigan," he asked, dropping the titles in the hopes that she would get to the point, "I have a mountain of things to do, and I don't have the time to be indulging fanciful rumours about my personal life,"

As her black brows drew tightly together, he could see something sour in her face as she spit; "I simply wish to know your intentions with her. During the Blight she saved my life more times than I can count; without her my life would not be as it is now. I am sure many in Ferelden could say the same,"

Morrigan folded her arms, glaring so viciously he was amazed he didn't burst into flame as she continued; "She is a formidable and incredible woman, and will not have some _fool_ taking her for granted."

Cullen couldn't say he wasn't expecting some sort of outcry when the rumours started spreading. In the Circle, his feelings for Amell were absolutely forbidden and that fear of being discovered had always haunted him, even to the present day. Mages feeling attracted to Templars was nothing special - they were not prohibited to harbour feelings for anyone, Templars or otherwise.

Templars however, were _not_ to develop romantic relationships with their charges, and a lot of Mages looked upon such relationships with disdain, as though the Templar in question was taking advantage of their power or authority.

It made sense that eventually someone would take umbrage of... of _whatever the hell was going on between them_, but Cullen was not expecting it to be anything like what Morrigan was angry about.

She didn't seem to care that he was a former Templar - hers was a question of suitability, and it didn't fail to enrage him. Who the hell was_ she_ to question his intelligence or prowess when it came to Constance Amell?

"I don't believe that my correspondence with Mage Amell has anything to do with _you_-"

"_Mage Amell...?_" She tsked with her tongue, "You are in the Circle no longer. She's not some half-baked Apprentice flinging spells about; you do realize she is the Warden Commander of the Grey, yes? The Hero of Ferelden, Vanquisher of the Fifth Blight?"

"I am more than aware of her titles," he said tightly.

"If that is true then surely you would you would not refer to her as "_Mage Amell_" as though chastising her for running in the halls. Do you even understand the kind of power she wields?"

"I don't see how this is any of your concern," he found his voice had risen slightly, "nor any of your business."

"It is my _concern_," she pushed, her voice rising too, "because she was once a very dear friend to me, and is now a very powerful and influential woman and I would not see her good name sullied over some ridiculous rumours. Before I joined her on her quest to end the Blight I had no one I would willingly call _friend_ \- without her I suspect I would not even be alive, nor she without having met me. Can _you_ truly offer her what she deserves?"

Her vicious words hit him right in the gut, dropping the bottom of his stomach down until he felt nauseated. He'd never really felt like he deserved her affections, not after all the things he said to her after she saved the Tower, and Morrigan's hateful words were only confirming his already serious doubts. That she deserved better than him, that she was too good and too powerful for him, and that he was a fool for thinking otherwise.

He narrowed his eyes at her and seethed; "Not once did I ever suggest that I was offering her anything. Our correspondence has been nothing but companionable and mutual, and I would ask that you not assume otherwise."

There was a long, thick silence. Her pretty mouth thinned in quiet rage. As he glared at her, watching her slowly uncurl from her position, she folded her arms gently, turned her head to the side so as not to look him in the eye, wilting.

"... Is she well?" The supplication was so quiet he almost didn't hear it, and it was then that he saw the brief vulnerability in the woman as her fingers dug into the skin of her bare arms as if trying to hold them there. "... I only ask because... because it has been quite some time since we last spoke... I cannot say I left on the best of terms with her. It could have been different, if perhaps..."

And there it was... _jealousy_, and it was so jarring that Cullen nearly stumbled. Morrigan had said such hateful things, not because she felt he was unsuitable, but because it hurt her to know he was growing closer to someone she once was close to as well.

She missed the Hero of Ferelden. She had regrets just as he did. She was simply projecting her pain onto him, without even knowing he once felt the same.

He breathed out in the chill night air, "I don't know... she speaks little of her health. She is travelling, as far as I am aware, looking for an ending to the Calling."

Another stretch of silence, only broken by the barely audible whisper of Morrigan asking; "... What are you _doing_, Constance...?"

She looked up, flicking a strand of black hair out of her eyes, watching the comings and goings of the resident in the Garden, and then turned to him, her face devoid of that previous fury; "I owe her _much_... though I suppose she would owe me in kind. You will write to her, then?"

"I will," he agreed, gesturing openly, though he was still angry at her words he wasn't about to hold contact with Constance over her.

"Tell her..." she began, but looked away as though searching for the right words, "tell her I think of her. Tell her that I am sorry, and tell her... tell her that _I have a son_. And that he is _safe_."

What the story was between Morrigan, her son and Constance Amell was, he didn't know. He suspected it was a trying tale, but wasn't sure if he wanted to ask or if he even wanted to hear it. He nodded at least, looking earnestly at her as she wrung her hands.

"I presume she was not at Adamant, then?" She asked.

"No," he answered, relaxing somewhat that the angry tension between them started to fade away, "she has been travelling since before the Breach. We received mention of her whereabouts from Warden Alistair, although even he was unsure of where he was exactly."

And at _that_, something softened in her eyes that completely took the edge off her previously thorny demeanour, "Alistair? He... yet lives?"

"He is alive, yes."

The witch smirked, though it was pleasant and sentimental, looking down at her hands with glazed eyes like she was recalling a memory; "So the fool hasn't fallen on his own sword, then..."

Between Leliana and Morrigan, Cullen was beginning to feel as though there were a great many stories regarding the Hero of Ferelden that he hadn't heard, and a small part of him wished he was in that loop. _What happened between them all_, he wondered. Morrigan appeared to be the crux of much though Leliana barely mentioned her; he supposed by the wrinkle in the Orlesian's nose that she spoke little of the witch because she disliked her, and judging by her personality he honestly wasn't surprised.

Constance, Alistair, Leliana, Morrigan... so much history, so much anger from the witch, and at the same time as much fondness as Leliana's stories.

Morrigan began walking away; "Thank you for your time, _Commander_,"

And that was it, no apology, no explanation, and Cullen wondered briefly why he was even expecting one. Squeezing his temples between his thumb and forefinger, Cullen headed back out into the Main Hall and made for his office, a headache that had nothing to do with the withdrawal starting to form at the front of his head.

Part of what she said was true, he didn't know if he could offer her what she deserved, in fact he struggled with the idea of even offering it in the first place. A few written admissions and vague flirtations about past lives were not things to build a relationship on, and vaguely he wondered just how out-of-hand the rumours had gotten.

What exactly were they saying? Morrigan was suggesting he was actively pursuing her, when in reality he was doing nothing of the sort. They were only beginning to admit a mutual admiration, not exchanging lover's knots, so what exactly was the rumour travelling around?

No doubt that obnoxious Mage Tanner and Leliana were fanning the flames... possibly even the Inquisitor himself if Cullen were bold enough to say it.

He... _wanted_ to pursue something, but he hoped the rumours weren't promising more than he could actively give... after all, what if she wanted to keep the past as it was?

What if she had a lover already?

Even though those thoughts in context to their correspondence and the scuttlebutt he'd heard were wrong, still they lingered, and with his withdrawal in full swing he found it very difficult to stamp them down and push them away.

When a Warden entered his office the next day with Amell's reply, he still felt that same sense of unease, even though he was ultimately excited to read what she wrote. There was a part of him that felt... unworthy, out of her clique. _An outsider_.

Cullen wondered what his life would have been like if only he took the chance in the Tower and asked the Warden Duncan to recruit him. Cullen wondered what his life would have been like if he'd stolen Amell away before her Harrowing, even though that probably would have been impossible.

Pushing his thumb underneath the unmarked wax seal, he couldn't help but smile at the now familiar un-fussy, purposeful handwriting and signature - and wondered, though it was an entirely fanciful thought, what his life would be like if she visited Skyhold.

* * *

_Cullen, _

_It has been such a long time since I thought at length about Ser Fontaine. The memory of him was so painful for so very long, even after I left the Tower, but putting it down on paper has felt very cleansing. _

_Ser Fontaine was originally from Orlais, he was an older gentleman, but very experienced. Perhaps that is why Knight-Commander Greagoir sought his counsel so much, he had a very calming effect on many of the Mages under him, especially in trying times such as Harrowings and Mages undergoing Rites of Tranquillity. He was balding, was very pale, and had the softest green eyes of anyone I have ever known. _

_I have so many fond memories of him. I was only a child when I arrived at the Tower. From what I was told, Ser Fontaine saved me from a group of bandits – according to him I had set one of them on fire with my mind. They ransacked my family's carriage travelling from the port at Amaranthine to Denerim; he was passing by on an unrelated mission and was too late to save my family, and so he brought me to the Tower. Ser Fontaine was the kindest, most patient man I have ever met, and I was truly blessed to have him watching over me before he died. _

_In my early teens, I started to notice his mental state declining. He was still very efficient and careful, but occasionally he would lose the ability to remember words, put names to faces, or he would become paranoid about the people around him. It was very upsetting to see a man once so good and powerful lose himself to his addiction like that. Many of us, both Mages and Templars, were heartbroken by the loss. _

_I cared for him in his final days. It was incredibly tough, but I was most adept with healing magics at the time, and he seemed to recognise me the most out of the people surrounding him. Knight-Commander Greagoir wanted him to retire to White Spire, but his health rapidly declined once he lost his memory, so we buried him not far from the Tower when he eventually passed. _

_He was a kind and gentle man, and I am a better person having known him. I would thank you for asking about him._

_In regards to your last letter, I must say that I laughed so hard I woke my Mabari up. You tripped over a candelabra and set another Templar on fire? What, pray-tell, did you find so distracting about me that it caused another Templar to go up in flames? I can safely say I never witnessed it, although if I was near you at the time it is a wonder how I didn't. I hope the poor man was alright... _

_To say that you found my youthful attraction to you interesting is, well, interesting, for want of a better term. But it is true, you looked so very strong and imposing in all that armour. I had always wondered what kind of physical strength it would take to constantly wear such heavy plate metal – a rather adolescent thought you understand. _

_I remember liking the colour of your hair, the set of your jaw. I remember liking your rather shy smile, I liked how you weren't as stern as the other Templars, how you spoke to me as though I were a person, an equal. I suppose after spending years around the same people they came to know me from childhood onwards and it can be daunting learning how to treat people like adults, even Mages, but I never had that worry with you. _

_Though I am prattling on. I do hope I am not embarrassing you. _

_I previously wrote that you should not worry about me and that supplication still stands. I am as safe as one can be when travelling and you can take from that what you will. The Calling that Corypheus commands ever lingers in the back of my mind, and it is becoming difficult to concentrate. _

_Between these letters I find it hard to banish the call from my mind, and it is wearing down on my resolve. I hope you and your Inquisition can put a stop to this madness soon. I will continue to search for an alternative in the mean time. _

_The thought is appreciated however, please do not misunderstand. _

_Yours, _

_\- Constance_

* * *

_Constance,_

_Thank you for your glowing description of Ser Fontaine, he sounded like an extraordinary man, and you have my deepest sympathies for your loss. _

_Yes, though the memory shames me I did indeed set another Templar alight by pure accident. I had been watching you ascend the stairs in the Tower and became so interested in the gait of your walk that I failed to notice what I was doing at the time. Quite the embarrassment._

_If I told you that would be the only incident, it would be a lie. You served as an excellent distraction from my duties, often to my own detriment; I suppose I should not be surprised that the gossip of how I felt spread like wild-fire through the Tower as there was scarcely a time when I didn't have my eye on you when in my presence. _

_A part of me wishes I had known you thought such things of me. I recently travelled to Orlais to attend a Ball as part of The Inquisitor's honour guard, and such compliments were directed at me from all corners to which I often felt there was no escape. None of them had the sort of effect that yours has, however. I deflected most of their advances, though I daresay I welcome yours. I've been grinning like a fool since I read your letter. _

_In the wake of the events at Halamshiral, I can safely say we draw closer to defeating Corypheus, though you understand if I cannot divulge any details. With luck and careful planning, you and the rest of the Wardens should hopefully not be under the influence of his Calling after we face him and his army. _

_I have been asked to pass a message on to you from the Inquisitor's Arcane Advisor, Morrigan. I have come to understand that she travelled with you during the Fifth Blight. She has asked me to tell you that she is sorry, and that she often thinks of you. She has a son named Kieran and he is safe with her at Skyhold. _

_I feel I should tell you that she seems to think on you with a great deal of regret. I know this is none of my business, but she was visibly distraught when asking me to pass this message on, and had nothing but praise when speaking of you. _

_Despite the effects of the Calling, I hope you are well, and I am glad that stories of my utter embarrassment was enough to bring a smile to your face,_

_Yours, _

_\- Cullen_

* * *

_Cullen, _

_I was not aware Morrigan was at Skyhold, nor indeed as an advisor to the Inquisition. It has been a very long time since I have last seen her. Too long, in fact. _

_The circumstances surrounding Morrigan and I are complicated, though I can safely say I have never encountered a more intelligent, more loving person in my life, and though we did not part in a way I would have preferred, I think of her quite fondly. _

_Morrigan saved my life, saved the lives of all of us during the Fifth Blight, sacrificed a great deal so that I could live and it both saddens me and eases me a great deal to know that she is safe and well. I cannot believe that she has a child, I am so torn between feeling so terribly sad and happy for her that I am unsure how to feel. Please send on my regards to her, tell her that she has no need to be sorry, that I understand. That I cannot thank her enough, for everything she has done. _

_Between yourself, Leliana and Morrigan now at Skyhold, the world is starting to feel quite small. Perhaps I should visit Skyhold soon – it is time for me to start returning to my duties as Ferelden Warden Commander of the Grey even if I don't address the Inquisition. I have abandoned my post for too long and left too much up to Alistair and the other Wardens at Weisshaupt. _

_The threat of Corypheus is one I can no longer ignore, after all he appears to be one of the Darkspawn if what my correspondence says is correct. _

_I also cannot deny that a large part of me greatly wishes to see you again, _

_Yours, _

_\- Constance_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Notes**: I have a confession to make. I love Samson. I legit think Samson is sexy. I don't know if it's because he's voice by Gideon Emry or that his character model is kind of hot in a rugged, evil sort of way, but dammit I actually salivate at the thought.

Fucking. _Samson_ tho. Oh, the _humanity_.

* * *

War was an ugly business. There were more than some men and women who revelled in the heat of battle, who enjoyed spilling blood and felt the thrill of advancing forward and Cullen would be lying if he said he didn't sometimes feel that way too.

But there was another side to the coin in terms of serious battle, and it was the side he tried to prepare his troops the most for. The side that left them spitting out blood and teeth, the side that saw them covered in blood or cradling broken bones and fresh wounds. The side that saw them sitting next to their dead friends on the battlefield trying to find some sense in it all. War was ugly, dangerous, and as their Commander he was sending them out in the name of the Inquisition to fight it.

It was easy to see the Red Templars as monsters ripe for the killing, so that helped somewhat, to distance yourself from seeing what once must have been a pious man or woman bastardised by corrupted Lyrium.

But as Cullen wiped the gore from his face as he made his way to the healer's tents, he was finding it hard to distance himself completely.

The song of the Red Lyrium was strong and loud in his ears and he could barely walk four steps without a runner needing to speak with him. Battle reports, logistics, messages from different forces such as Celene's army, the present Wardens and the Chargers - he heard them all as he made his way towards the commotion that was the healer's tents, his presence requested specifically for important information from Warden Tanner. The Mage in question had a broken arm and was not being compliant with the healers, aggressively throwing magic around when people tried to approach him.

Cullen was not in the mood for any type of insubordination. He pushed aside the linen flap of the tent, the yelling and talking instantly dying down as he entered. What soldiers inside that were not injured instantly stood at attention; Tanner was sitting up on a cot, grimacing, his face covered in the soot from what must have been fire spells.

The Mage paid little attention to the fact that his Commander had just entered, shoving the healer next to him aside and swearing. Cullen let that one slide when he saw the edge of bone standing sharply through the fabric of his thick coat, his blood running in rivulets down his fingers.

"Commander!" The soldiers in the tent annunciated, saluting at their chests. Tanner whipped his head around, angry tears shining in his eyes.

When he stood it was on trembling legs, his arm held tightly to his chest by the other, the gory broken bone catching Cullen's eye in such an abject manner it was hard to look away. The Mage was baring his teeth, be it from pain or rage, the Commander wasn't sure, but the way Tanner was standing suggested the latter. The Mage looked angry, and was going to direct that anger at him, let go of his rank and start yelling, and it didn't surprise Cullen in the least when he did.

War did that to people.

"Commander, I can fight!" He seethed, his messed reddish hair dark underneath all that soot, "Tell your healers to let me back out there with my kin-"

"The bone in your arm is sticking out of your skin, Warden Tanner, you're not going anywhere," he interrupted, "now, report. What did you see?"

Then the tears started spilling, the Mage's face contorted even more as he fought two urges – one to wipe the tears away and the other to let them fall so he didn't have to let go of his arm. His voice rose, he could hear the break in the words as the Mage unleashed his wrath and frustration in his words, abandoning rank completely.

"See?! What does it matter what I fucking saw?! That Blighted, Tevinter bastard took over my kin's body, used it like a fucking toy! Every Warden here is in danger, do you understand?"

"Speak plainly, Tanner-"

"You're not listening! We're all at risk, don't you see? Kill him once, he just jumps into another like you'd change your fucking boots – he's not even living!"

"If you're asking me to pull every Warden here out of the battle, I can't do that-" he tried to say, in a somewhat calming manner but the Mage just grew more irate.

"What is the alternative? Let Corypheus just jump into someone else? What if it was me? This is not what the Wardens live and fucking die for! Defeating Archdemons and Darkspawn just to let them use us like their fucking puppets to do their bidding – I'm not saying pull them out for their benefit, I'm saying do it for yours!"

"I. _Can't_." He said strongly, staring the Mage down.

"I watched that Warden die!" Tanner's voice broke on the accentuated D in _die_, as he broke down into a sob, "He was my brethren! This Calling, the events at Adamant, the Divine's death – he made us all do it and it's not what we fight for! I watched that bastard jump into my brother's body and wear his skin to use it against the world, and you're telling me you can't get them out of his path? Let me out there!"

Tanner dropped to his knees, holding his broken arm so tightly it was a wonder he wasn't hurting himself even worse. Finally crying in earnest, the Mage hung his head as the sobs wracked his body, his anguish was louder and somehow more jarring than the battle still raging in the distance. His information was not helping Cullen feel any better about the battle ahead, but it was entirely too late to tell the Wardens to retreat entirely, and he would be risking a lot of runners' lives to get them all out.

"Get him patched up and back to Skyhold," he ordered one of the healers, who fumbled with her supplies as she tried to salute him. He was out of the tent before she had the chance.

He could hear Tanner in the tent sobbing something that sounded like; "This isn't what we're fighting for," and Cullen grimaced. He would throw himself in to the battle to see his comrades avenged and Cullen wouldn't have it; the Mage was injured and he wasn't prepared to lose any more men while the Inquisitor infiltrated the temple. They were keeping Samson's warriors at bay until they made their next move and that was how it was going to stay until they had more information and confirmation that the Inquisitor was safe.

In his peripheral vision, he could see Cole to his right, looking towards the tent while the sounds of the wailing Mage could still be heard.

"The image frightened him," Cole said, "he put himself in the body of man who succumbed to Corypheus, wore his face for the change. _He watches the Warden writhe, barely alive, hears the crack of bones being split apart; the man rears back and vomits up their black blood from every orifice – that could be me, __**that could be me**__!_"

"_Cole_-" he starts, but the boy shakes his head.

"You're picturing it happening to her – I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." He says, but Cullen's mind had already conjured up the image of Constance Amell succumbing to what Cole was describing, and the thought didn't fail to completely turn his stomach.

It did in fact - he wobbled around to the rear of the tent and threw up what little contents was left in his stomach as the image burned across his mind. Cole attempted to help but he brushed the boy off, it was too late.

If Corypheus could do that – jump to the nearest available Blighted creature – then all Wardens were in danger, and that included Constance Amell. Until he was stopped they were all in danger, and she said she was making her way back to Ferelden to re-assume her mantle. Maker, what if it happened to her?

Never mind that she was such an intensely powerful Mage that she would give Corypheus an edge, if she returned to where Corypheus was near he could control her, and Cullen couldn't let that happen.

Even if it meant telling her to stay, telling her to not go to Skyhold.

When he was finished retching, he wiped the spit from his mouth with a gloved hand and met with Josephine in the War tent, ordering the present Cole to _carefully_ go out and warn what Wardens he could find to not engage Corypheus under any circumstances. If anyone could sneak into the heat of battle without large risk of injury, it would be the spirit.

He hoped it would be enough to get them away from the danger that Corypheus posed to them, but he supposed it was their sworn duty to fight such monsters, and giving them such information may not even deter them. Allying with the Wardens never seemed like a mistake until he was faced with the possibility of Corypheus using their bodies as clothing.

After the battle, when it seemed that the Red Templars were starting to fall back, the Inquisitor sent work that they had used the Elluvian to travel back to Skyhold. Cullen organised a sweep of the Temple and surrounding area for the fallout, and thought about what he was going to say to Constance in his next letter, begging her not to return.

He never got a chance to reply when he was so busy co-ordinating their war efforts – what if she was near? _Maker_, the thought of her falling under Corypheus's thrall was horrifying, he couldn't allow it!

It was a long time before he finally had a moment to himself; they'd drove what was left of the Red Templars back and managed to successfully secure their General which Cullen personally oversaw, so when he finally got the time after nearly two straight days on his feet in battle and organising the troops, Cullen sat down by candlelight to write out his supplication, his hands shaking and tears shining in his eyes.

He handed Tanner the letter, pressing it into his palm tightly as though that would somehow convey its importance, and pleaded with him; "Get this to Constance, whatever way you can. Do you understand?"

Tanner nodded, exhausted, his arm in a sling and his eyes filming over again. With no one in the tent save for a few resting soldiers, Cullen embraced the trembling Mage when the tears slipped free down his face despite trying his best not to cry in front of his Commander. The Mage buried his scarlet face into the furs on Cullen's shoulders and sobbed quietly, shuddering.

It was because he'd seen his comrades fall, because he'd been exposed to more than he was used to even as a Warden fighting Darkspawn for the last few years. Cullen knew that, and wanted at least to give the man some dignity and comfort after his tearful outburst, despite the fact that he seriously broke rank.

He understood, in some fashion, what it was to see upsetting things and in turn say words you may regret, so he decided to let the insubordination slide.

The battle had taken so much out of them; out of them all.

* * *

_Constance, _

_I hope this letter reaches you in time. _

_I can understand the sense of urgency you feel in regards to Corypheus, but I must implore you to stay where you are and do not attempt to return until he is slain. _

_We have recently witnessed the kind of control that he exerts over Wardens – using their bodies as hosts when his own perishes, and I cannot risk this happening to you. Please, Constance, do not put yourself in this vulnerable position by returning, for your sake as well as the sake of your soldiers. _

_When it is safe to return I will inform you, but as it stands you would be putting yourself in a dire situation if you were to make the journey back if you have not already. _

_Please be safe – after all this time I don't know if I could bear the weight of your death, not now that we have grown so close, _

_\- Cullen_

* * *

Samson had been incredibly, almost _suspiciously_ forthcoming with the information he had about Corypheus, which safe to say wasn't much.

Cullen oversaw his transportation from the Temple of Mythal to Skyhold; once subdued, he was chained to a metal cart with manacles on his wrists, ankles, and one around his neck, all held to the base of the cart in a sitting position. Unsure of what kind of power the Ex-Templar still possessed, he ordered that a metal mask be fitted around the lower half of his face, a leather-wrapped bar put between his teeth so he didn't try to bite his own tongue off, and he stayed in that position for the majority of the trip, spit dripping out from where his mouth was held open.

He felt the precautions necessary. The fact that it looked rather humiliating for Samson was an enjoyable consequence.

The Inquisitor had ordered Cullen to get whatever information from Samson that he could during his trial, but the man knew little of Corypheus's motivations or movements. His base of operations at the Shrine of Dumat had already been destroyed, as well as his armour and the majority of his forces, and honestly Cullen believed him when he said that he had nothing more to offer because there really was nothing else he could know.

Shortly after his questioning, Corypheus appeared under the Breach and the Inquisitor, along with his inner circle, went to face the Magister head-on. The residents at Skyhold watched the sky as the Inquisitor took the path upward, waiting with bated breath for something, _anything_ to tell them if the Qunari won or fell.

Leliana urged him to rest, and though he agreed with her he simply couldn't until he knew they were safe. Instead, he went to the kitchens to grab two pots of hot water, two cups, and added the painkilling tea from Amell to the steaming water, shaking the leaves and herbs around in the half-empty jar. If he could get the five hours that the tea would offer it would at least be something.

He made his way down to the dungeons with the tea in his hand, from the top of the staircase down he could hear Samson's pained moaning and pleading with the guard for Lyrium, but they had all refused him – he wasn't long for the world after all.

"... The fuck is _this_?" Samson slurred as Cullen handed him the cup through the bars, putting the rim to his nose and smelling the contents there.

"It's tea," he replied, sitting on the floor against the wall next to the cell, sighing when his heavy legs tingled in relief, "drink it. It will help,"

"Help _what_?"

"The pain,"

It took great effort for the man to right himself up on his cot. Once he was sitting up, he muttered something about how the tea smelled like an old Orlesian Dowager, but sipped it regardless.

Though strict and hard, Cullen was not without mercy. He hated the man with every fibre of his being for what he did to those Templars; taking advantage of their addictions and feeding them corrupted Lyrium, and worse, speaking of it as though he were showing them mercy. He turned so many pious men and women against everything they stood for-

And yet the thoughts of Samson's suffering with his own addiction gave him pause. Possibly because he knew what it meant. Possibly because, after knowing what Samson was like in the Kirkwall Circle, he knew his suffering would be tenfold.

His addiction had been so powerful in Kirkwall – Cullen saw first-hand what it did to him and how broken he had become, begging for coin in Lowtown just to get more Lyrium to tie him over until his next fix. Given the opportunity he probably would have gorged himself on the stuff and died from the sheer overdose.

_You were good, once_, he thought as he heard the man in the cell rattle his chains as if to test them, _you had standards. Limits. Morals._

And that was all wasted, all because of Lyrium. Cullen wasn't going to lie and say Samson's cutting words about the Chantry using them didn't affect him, he just never really gave it as much thought until faced with the worst consequence that was the Red Templar General; a man driven so mad and desperate by his addiction that he turned to serving the very thing he fought to protect people against. The Chantry had dangled that carrot over them, kept them silent and placid and fearful with it, and they had all swallowed what they so roughly shoved down their throats under the guise of power and protection.

He still remembered how Samson used to pass Maddox's letters to his lover in Kirkwall, how he would grin and pretend it wasn't happening but also how he would puff up with what seemed to be pride and even sympathy at the thoughts of helping someone in some small way. He never lorded his power over the Mages, he even joked and swapped stories with them when off duty. Everyone liked his down-to-earth attitude even if his lackadaisical approach to a lot of things got him into trouble.

All the Templars at the Kirkwall Circle knew of his rampant addiction, but with the tight hold the Chantry had on their Lyrium, none of them could give him more, not without sacrificing their own draughts. Cullen remembered thinking it was only a matter of time before it all caught up to Samson eventually...

He sipped his tea, it went down smoothly without that usual bitter tastes most tisanes offered. With luck it would knock him out before he got to the end of the cup.

He heard Samson suddenly move in his cell, muttering, "Corypheus... he's near?"

Cullen sipped his tea again, "The Inquisitor is travelling to meet him under the Breach. It is only a matter of time before he falls... you can sense him?"

"... In a way, yeah... kind of like the way Grey Wardens can sense the Darkspawn."

There was a pause as the man seemed to consider his next words, before asking; "So... you're off the dust, then?"

"I haven't taken it since Kirkwall,"

"... _Huh._"

Back in Kirkwall, the idea of coming off Lyrium wouldn't have even been considered by most Templars. They all knew the risks associated with it, and Cullen thought about them all quite carefully when he made his decision to join the Inquisition. He wasn't out of the woods yet – it was a long, difficult road to recovery – but every day not taking it was a step further in the right direction.

The song of Red Lyrium was particularly loud around Samson, it rang in the back of his head... made his teeth itch. Sipping his tea again, he fought the strong urge for Lyrium with the exhaustion he was feeling. He was too tired to get up, even if he wanted Lyrium so badly it would just be wasted energy.

_I miss it_, he thought reluctantly. It wasn't a thought he liked to admit to himself, but it was the baser truth. He missed the explosion of music when he drank it, he missed the way his body could reach outside of itself to grasp and stamp on magic, cancelling it completely like squashing an insect under his heel. He missed the preparation of the draught, how it would fit into his routine. The power and the music... it was gone, and he would never hear it again. He was bereft of it.

His teeth continued to itch just thinking about it.

Being around Samson brought up that urge to go back, even though he was the quintessential effect of what Lyrium – red or otherwise - could achieve. Perhaps because he thought that no matter how bad he got it could never be so bad that he stooped to Samson's level... still, it was a sorry excuse of a thought and he felt ashamed for even thinking it.

With a sigh, he leaned back against the wall even further, wondering how the Inquisitor was fairing, praying that it all came to an end before the night was through. His eyelids started to droop, his head swam dizzily, he could feel his limbs starting to tingle as the tea kicked-in, soothing aching muscles and overwrought nerves.

He could hear Samson saying something; he grunted questioningly when he failed to understand.

"I said; what the fuck is in this tea? Is it poisoned?"

His words were slurred, and Cullen was sure his were too when he answered; "Don't be ridiculous. It's just tea. I received it as a gift from an old friend, it's for the pain that comes with Lyrium withdrawal."

"Right. And why are you giving it to me?"

"We were friends, once," he answered simply, startled by his own honesty, "I know what the pain is like,"

"No offence, _Commander_," he heard the man sneer behind the bars, "but you haven't a fucking clue how this feels,"

Cullen snorted, not even bothering to argue. True, he didn't know the difference between Red Lyrium and regular Lyrium and how it felt, but he was doing the man a kindness either way, at least he could say that much if the Inquisitor failed and Skyhold fell down around their ears.

"It's different," Samson said after some time, he could hear him adjust his position in the cell to what he presumed was him lying down on the cot there, "Red Lyrium is everything the other stuff wishes it could be, and more. It's painful, but the pain is... it's worth it, _fuck_ it is so worth it..."

Swallowing harshly, his vision swam when he downed the rest of his cup a little too quickly, the bottom falling out of his stomach as the sensation of drifting away took over.

"Don't you miss it?" He heard Samson wonder, "Don't you miss what if felt like...?"

"Every day," he admitted, his arms falling slack by his sides, the guards by the door shifted uncomfortably at the all too vulnerable condition of their Commander, "but I can't go back."

Even if he wanted to, he couldn't go back to that, to being dependent on something that he may not have on a day-to-day basis, to feeling like the Chantry had him on a leash that they could pull whenever they saw fit. To be used like an attack dog against Mages.

Even if it meant never hearing the music again, never feeling the power coursing through him in a way that was so empowering - and arguably terrifyingly _sexual_ – he just _couldn't_. He was no-one's dog, he was no Templar, he was just a man who wanted to do right by the world after standing idly by for so long, letting things crumble around him while feeling powerless to stop it all.

With an exhausted smile, he wondered what Warden Amell would say if she saw him, slumped against the wall with a rambling addict in a dungeon – would she pity him? Would she think it was his own fault?

Would she still feel the same, seeing the state he was in?

"You used to scream in your sleep," Samson said offhandedly, when Cullen craned his head around he could see the man was lying in the cot like he'd fallen there; his arm hanging off the side, "it used to keep me awake all bloody night. You used to say the same few names, over and over again," he continued, "I can still remember them. Uldred, Gregoir, Irving, Amell – all _fucking_ night. The others used to joke that I was torturing you."

Cullen winced at that, because those dreams were usually about him _actually_ being tortured, "I suppose I should say sorry-"

"Stuff your apology. I couldn't sleep anyway,"

His eyes started to droop, it wouldn't be long until he fell asleep on the floor, but he couldn't muster the strength to get up, and by the sounds of it neither could Samson.

"... Always screaming in your sleep..." was the last thing he heard the man say before Cullen's head fell back against the stone and the rest he sorely needed claimed him.

* * *

Cullen would have thought, with Corypheus dead and the Breach in the sky sealed at last, that his workload would be relieved somewhat, but it appeared that the effort to reduce the fallout and cleaning the mess left in the wake of the Orlesian Civil War, the Red Templars and the remaining Rifts were dumping a whole mess of work onto him that he wasn't sure how to handle it all.

Not only that, but now that Corypheus had been defeated, many of their Warden allies seemed to be in limbo about their roles to the Inquisition, and a lot of them expressed their concerns to him. He sent word to Warden Commander Amell that it was safe to make the journey back, and informed the Wardens that until he received her reply he was unsure of what they were to do, and to keep going with their current objectives.

There were still demons to be slain and smatterings of Venatori and Red Templars around, there was certainly no shortage of work.

Leliana was busy making preparations for her inauguration as the new Divine with Josephine helping no doubt, and between travelling around Thedas to close the remaining rifts, the Inquisitor was quietly preparing a wedding between him and Cassandra, to which the Seeker had no idea.

The relaxed, hopeful air about Skyhold was getting infectious despite the work. He, along with Josephine and indeed the Inquisitor were all wondering where the Inquisition was heading now that their goal had been achieved.

It was just over a week before he received his reply from Constance Amell, and he made a face at the thick, twine-bound and stamped letter handed to him one early morning, wonderingly turning it over and thinking about how _official_ it looked.

He pulled the string free and broke the Warden seal, revealing what arguably looked like a contract underneath, and sure enough there was a separate letter within addressed to him, neat and purposefully bearing his first name only. He put that to the side, perusing the more official letter first to gain a better understanding-

* * *

_To Inquisitor Hellren Adaar, and to all members of the Inquisition, _

_First allow me to extend my deepest gratitude on behalf of The Wardens and indeed on behalf of Thedas for your victory over the Magister and subsequent Darkspawn Corypheus. _

_Without your painstaking work to defeating this enemy of Thedas, the world would be in a mortal peril that even the Wardens could not hope to stop, and I extend my thanks from the very bottom of my heart, as I am sure all people of this world will do. We will not forget your victory, nor will the rest of Thedas. _

_Now that Corypheus has been defeated, his Calling and hold over the Wardens stopped, it appears that our alliance is at a crossroads. I am under no illusion that, under the command of the Inquisition, both Orlesian and Ferelden Wardens have done incredible work for Thedas in fighting demons, Darkspawn and aiding in war relief, and that without such leadership they would have surely fallen under the thrall of Corypheus. _

_The Inquisition has given many Wardens purpose that was sorely needed after the Blight, and on behalf of the Ferelden Wardens, I wish to extend my knowledge and influence to aid the Inquisition in finding out about how Corypheus came to be, especially as such information coincides with subsequent Blights. _

_Knowing that so many Wardens convene in Skyhold and that it is the best base of operations in which to co-ordinate from, I will arrive within a fortnight to give further orders to my troops, and I would ask that you expect many more Wardens to arrive in the mean time. _

_I feel I have information that may be of use to your Inquisition in regards to Corypheus as well as Darkspawn that have shown similar traits. I would be happy to share as such with your advisers upon arrival, _

_Kind Regards, _

_Constance Amell_

_Ferelden Warden Commander of the Grey_

* * *

Cullen grinned; it wasn't so much as a request as it was an order for space to convene - Josephine would be impressed. As a Warden and indeed Warden Commander, she could take whatever she wished using her rights and indeed her treaties, and though they could object it would be poor taste to do so. She held no such treaty over the Inquisition, but as people of Ferelden, Orlais, the Dalish, the Dwarves and so many others, _personally_ they would all be obliged to help.

He wasn't about to think that she would come to Skyhold and conscript them all, that wouldn't make any sense, but the threat of the power she had was evident enough.

Still, it seemed she wanted to aid them and share important information, and Cullen was more than happy with the arrangement, especially if that meant he could see her in person after so long. Picking up the letter she addressed to him personally, he put the official one down on his desk and leaned back in his chair, breaking the unmarked seal with his thumbs.

* * *

_Cullen, _

_Now that the false calling has stopped we can all breathe a sigh of relief, especially myself. I feel like I have not known true silence until I heard the song ebbing away with what must have been your Inquisitor's victory. _

_I am making arrangements to travel to Skyhold. With good weather I should arrive within a fortnight. I would say that I am making this trip, or as what some have refereed to as a pilgrimage, for purely Warden related purposes but that is not entirely true. _

_I must say I am looking forward to seeing you again, in particular. So many of our goals coincide, yes, and it would be prudent that we collaborate given shared knowledge, yes – but I have my own selfish reasons for travelling to Skyhold and you are one of them. It has been a very long time, and so many words unspoken between us. _

_I hope to arrive soon – there are a few Wardens also travelling who wish to speak with me in person, so please expect them in the next coming days. _

_Yours, _

_\- Constance_

* * *

Cullen's heart was kicking up a quick, excited beat in his chest. His face filled with heat, his mind raced through images of Warden Amell in Skyhold, working with them to obtain more information, by his side in the War Room, speaking with the few Wardens stationed with them. _Looking like she belonged there_.

And... she was coming to see him, _him specifically_.

When he received her first letter he never expected to be holding such a reply in his hands, and he couldn't help but feel that things were rather cyclical like that; that eventually things came around to form a greater shape and purpose. He was going to see her again after ten long years, after putting her beautiful image to the back of his mind and pretending it didn't hold such a sway over him, and without having the courage to write such personal things and opening himself up like that he wouldn't be such a position.

Without her letters, he wouldn't be the blushing fool he was now, eagerly awaiting her arrival.

So that was it. Warden Commander Amell was coming to Skyhold.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Notes:** I'm not gonna lie, I legit burst into tears writing this chapter.

I am actually the biggest wimp.

**Warnings:** Mentions of a sexual nature.

* * *

Despite the workload, the steady stream of positive updates and the continuous rotation of recruits, Cullen was utterly convinced that he'd experienced the longest two weeks of his entire life.

He wanted to pretend it had nothing to do with Warden Commander Amell's arrival, but it was fairly obvious to himself and apparently to everyone else in Skyhold that he was so on edge because of that simple fact. When he handed Warden Amell's formal letter to the Inquisitor, the big Qunari smirked at him like he knew exactly how Cullen felt about it, and didn't say a word.

Josephine and Leliana on the other hand, were absolutely beside themselves. Leliana was more excited about seeing her old friend, however she _did_ get a few digs in with Josephine at his expense, and though he rolled his eyes and chastised them for their grossly unprofessional behaviour, his cheeks still heated and flushed like he was a young child being tormented by his sisters again. Mia and Rosalie were insufferable in their teasing growing up; he wondered vaguely why he put up with it so much.

The Inquisitor, Dorian, Sera and Iron Bull had all been dropping hints, whether through casual conversation or the passing of messages (Sera, _again_) about the Warden Commander and her ever-looming arrival. It had gotten to the point that word had spread so much that people were actively coming to see him about Warden related matters and queries that had nothing to do with him, and he'd sent more than one recruit out on their ear, thinking they were taking the piss.

It seemed all of Skyhold was speaking of it, and the thought didn't fail to enrage him with the audacity.

Especially considering how terribly impatient he was being.

Barely a week after Constance's letter, two Wardens of note arrived at Skyhold. Cullen had been preparing an updated map of the Exalted Plains and places of Inquisition relief in the surrounding areas, and was carrying the scroll from his office across the barracks to the War Room. When he stepped into Solas's now-empty study, he caught the figure of a short, blonde elven woman examining the fresco details covering the walls, decked out in Warden robes.

"_Remarkable_," he heard her sigh as she she leaned in towards the wall, He stepped into the room; Josephine was some feet away with her clipboard and quill.

"I am glad you think so," the Antivan said.

"You say he disappeared?" The woman asked, turning to allow her gaze to follow the expanse of the room, "A pity. I would have liked to speak with him about this. Such an old art, almost lost to time – it's difficult to find elves who still practice it."

"Indeed," Josephine dipped her quill into the pot on her board and caught his eye, "once the Breach was sealed, we have heard no word of him since. But – allow me to introduce you to our Commander,"

She looked like she was once a member of the Dalish, if her Valaslin was any indication of her previous life before the Wardens. She turned to face him, her soft blonde hair held up in a tidy bun and nodded her head, curtseying.

"This is Commander Cullen, the leader of our forces," Josephine then rounded him on, "Cullen, this is Warden Velanna, who travelled here from Amaranthine to convene with the Warden Commander,"

"_Charmed_," the elf smiled and curtsied again, "I have heard _much_ about you,"

"Pleased to met you,"

He didn't miss the teasing, entirely evil half-smirk she directed at him, his face filling with blood as he thought about what to say. Instead he chose to incline his head in greeting and smartly keep his mouth shut. How many Wardens were aware of his writing to their Commander? How many of them followed the rumours as well? Or worse, how many spread them?

"I hope you don't mind our early arrival," she said, linking her arms behind her back, "we have much to prepare for our Commander before she gets here,"

"It is no trouble, we hope the accommodations are to your liking," Josephine assured.

"I've been travelling on the road for weeks now with that Blighted _toadstool_ of a Dwarf. Trust me, they're more than adequate,"

Velanna was... almost _distractingly_ pretty. Despite her scowling, aggressive demeanour she had a doll-like appearance and large, pointed elven ears that framed her face rather beautifully. He found himself quite taken with her and her natural beauty.

"Is there anything we can aid you with in your preparations?" He asked, willing the flush in his face down when he found himself noticing how _smooth_ her skin looked.

"There is, but my friend Nathaniel will know more about exactly what we need - reports on Darkspawn in the area, Taigs close to the surface, exposed Dwarven ruins, that sort of thing. He should be arriving tomorrow, if not the day after."

The other Warden who accompanied Velanna to Skyhold was a Dwarf named Oghren. Cullen didn't personally meet him, he simply heard that upon his arrival with Velanna he made a beeline straight for the tavern and by sundown had gotten into a fight with Iron Bull, ending in someone getting a black eye and more than a few broken chairs. Apparently Leliana was the only person who could get the Dwarf to calm down and sleep off his latent stupor.

The day after, Warden Nathaniel arrived with another Dwarven Warden named Sigrun. He decided after meeting with them in his office that he much preferred them and their professional manner in comparison to their friends, and sent them with a runner to search for the documents, maps and reports that they needed.

They didn't ask for much beyond what Velanna described - maps of areas reported with Darkspawn activity and old Dwaven ruins, such as Valmaar in the Hinterlands, as well as information on Corypheus and what history they could find of him. What information the Inquisition had they were happy to provide, and Nathaniel only requested that they not be asked to take up arms unless in an emergency while waiting for their Commander.

Some days later, Warden Alistair arrived from Weisshaupt. As the most senior Warden in Skyhold, he took over some of the Commander's duties such as appointing tasks and assignments to Wardens in the immediate area. Personally Cullen was grateful that the Wardens were reporting to Alistair instead of him or Rylen; it took some of the workload off and it gave their Warden allies something to do that felt more relevant to their stations.

For the most part, the days passed at a snail's pace with Warden allies increasing in number. Josephine was doing her best to procure the stock for the kitchens to accommodate, but it was proving quite the task. Since Corypheus's defeat the Inquisition received a great many new recruits and Cullen was busy putting the more green members to training; between that and his workload he barely saw the Wardens between passing them around Skyhold.

Attitudes towards them were mixed, to say the least. There were those who stood in awe of them, especially Alistair who helped defeat an Archdemon. Then there were those who thought the Wardens nothing more than common thieves or thugs, and a few who still blamed them for the Divine's death and their actions at Adamant. Dorian in particular was surprised that the current group of Wardens were so cheery and friendly compared to those he met in Weisshaupt.

Regardless, when Cullen exited his office one morning to see Ferelden banners being raised around Skyhold, it was obvious that the Inquisition was standing behind their allies regardless of how their soldiers felt. Josephine insisted that they were for welcoming the Hero of Ferelden to their headquarters, that her arrival was an auspicious occasion, and while he believed her he couldn't help but feel a bit of second-hand embarrassment. How would Constance feel about being heralded to such a degree?

Besides, weren't the Amells Kirkwallers... ? How much did Constance know of that side of her family, if anything at all?

It was a topic of conversation, at least. Over the course of the two weeks, Cullen found he had a great many things he wished to speak to Constance about, if he could put aside the time with her. He often found himself thinking about it before he fell asleep, thinking about what he could possibly say to her when she finally arrived... what _was_ he going to say?

After ten years and a drawer full of letters, what was the first thing he was going to say to her?

When he found himself wracked with nightmares one night, he woke to the idea of telling her that _he loved her_, and nearly slapped himself just to dispel it. Such a foolish, fanciful notion from a boyish heart that was destroyed years ago... But wasn't it partly true? Wasn't there some small part of him that was... perhaps a little _more_ than fond?

Cullen rubbed his eyes and got out of bed, his mind racing. It was still dark out, but the Keep was quiet and empty save for the few guards on watch for the evening. He decided to take a stroll along the ramparts to clear his head, he needed the air.

But as he stepped out into the cool night air, he could see Alistair standing a few feet away, leaning over the edge of the battlements and staring off into the belly of the Keep. He was dressed down in just a tunic and breeches and boots, and judging by the puffiness of his eyes and the exhausted way he was standing, was looking worse for wear than even Cullen was.

"Can't sleep?" Cullen asked, approaching carefully so as not to startle the man.

Alistair glanced over his shoulder at him, "Not really," he said, elaborating as Cullen stood beside him, "just one of the many _wonderful_ perks of being a Warden; we get these really vivid nightmares about the Darkspawn. If I got it, it's probably only a matter of time before Oghren is up and trying to break into the tavern again,"

The Commander raised a brow, "_Again?_"

Alistair winced, "Probably shouldn't have told you that. He's going to get us into trouble."

The breeze was cool on the bare skin of his arms. He followed Alistair's wandering gaze to the courtyard, then over to the barracks wall over the gardens, and wondered what the man found so interesting about that area in particular as the silence stretched.

Alistair eventually broke it; "Oghren is... sensitive to the Taint," he explained, "all Wardens get dreams, sure, but there are few who can _hear_ them speaking, and Oghren is one of them. I think that's why he drinks so much, to try and forget them... then again, he drank before he joined the Wardens, so... speaking _of._"

The man waved down at the Dwarf as he walked out into the courtyard from the main hall; Oghren waved back lazily and seemed to be making his way towards them up the barracks.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" Alistair asked, still staring out at the gardens.

Inwardly sighing, Cullen replied; "If you wish," and braced himself for the inevitable questioning about his correspondence with Constance. If the other Wardens knew and were actively speaking of it, Alistair was probably more than aware, and he knew that he and Constance had a brief... _history_.

The man turned to face him, "The... other advisor that was here... _Morrigan..." _he trailed off, seemingly losing his nerve, and for a moment Cullen was taken aback.

"As far as I am aware, she had business to conclude in Halamshiral. Leliana tells me she won't be gone long."

It was true. The witch had taken her son and a small contingent of guards with her to wrap up what was left for her in Orlais, which apparently included some schooling for Kieran. The day before she departed she'd left a gift for Constance with Leliana, and said she'd hoped she would return before the Warden Commander left, since it was up in the air as to how long her visit would be.

"Right, _right_," he started wringing his hands, "and... how did she seem? Is she... _well?_"

Cullen shrugged, his brows tightening in confusion, "I suppose? I can't say we spoke overmuch; we weren't exactly on the friendliest terms,"

_Despite drinking from the Well at the Temple of Mythal_, he thought, _she seemed fine to me_, but decided not to say it. It was no one's business but hers, and he wasn't about to go telling Alistair something he wondered if perhaps Morrigan didn't want others to know. Besides, it was an overlong story and he didn't feel like recounting it at such an hour, so he left it.

Something softened in Alistair's eyes as he shook his head and turned back to lean over the wall, "That certainly _sounds_ like Morrigan,"

As the silence stretched again, he wondered if he was making the man uncomfortable by not saying anything; the way he shifted on his feet seemed to suggest as such, but he simply wasn't sure what to say that wasn't related to work, and he didn't look to be in a professional mood. The night sky was murky, full of clouds and the breeze carried a scent of rain from far below them. He should probably leave the man be-

"Leliana tells me she has a son," Alistair said, "... does he look like her?"

Cullen scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully, trying to picture Kieran in his mind but not really being able to. He was usually so busy and he'd only really seen the young man once or twice, and never long enough to really see any major familial resemblance. But the question on his mind was; why did Alistair want to know something so obscure?

"I can't say," he answered honestly, "I never really saw the boy,"

Alistair's brow darkened; for a moment he looked much older than he seemed. Josephine mentioned that he was the last descendent of Calenhad, and Cullen supposed he did have a rather regal look to him, in the same way that a lot of those with royal lines looked ancient beyond their years, like they were carrying the weight of their entire family tree on their shoulders.

The man sighed, waving him off, "Don' worry about it."

"Is... everything alright?"

"It's fine. Really. Just curious, I suppose..."

But the question still hung in the air, and briefly he wondered how they all tied together. Alistair, Morrigan and Constance... what _really_ happened between them? Did Leliana even know, or did she omit the details on purpose?

Not that it was any of his business.

"So..." the man began again; Cullen could see him raising a brow, "I've heard a _rumour_ about you and Amell,"

When Alistair turned to face him he'd cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling rather blind-sided after his questioning about Morrigan. Luckily, Oghren chose that moment to reach the top of the barracks stairs and round the corner, grumbling about how long it was taking him to get from place to place.

"You too, huh?" The Dwarf rumbled at Alistair, "Did we all get the same one?"

"We must have, if we're both here."

"Ah-huh. What'd I miss here, then?"

Alistair jerked his head in Cullen's direction, "Apparently Commander Cullen is having it off with Commander Amell,"

Cullen spluttered as Oghren started guffawing loudly, his face reddening. He folded his arms when the Dwarf, still laughing and reeking of ale, elbowed him in the hip and said, "Well good on ya!"

The two Wardens had a good chuckle at his expense and he wondered why he was still out on the barracks taking such abuse.

"You know, I don't blame you," Oghren eventually said after his laughter died down, nodding sagely, "your human women have the _best_ legs, real versatile. A man could get lost in a pair of legs like that."

While horrified at the insinuation that Oghren was making, a small part of him agreed with the Dwarf.

"What I wouldn't give to wear a nice pair of legs like that as a necklace," the Dwarf elaborated, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Alistair gag, "get 'em nice and _tight_ around your neck while you just-"

"_Maker's Breath_, Oghren, that's our _Commander_," Alistair buried his face in his hands as he hushed him and Cullen had to look away as the image came unbidden into his head. The Dwarf's voice sounded like he was gargling frogs, but the mental imagery was no less vivid – he couldn't say he hadn't, _on occasion_, indulged such fantasies of getting Constance's legs anywhere near his head, but with the Dwarf narrating the scene he felt bile rise up in his throat.

"Yeah, well, doesn't mean I haven't thought about it, let me tell you," Oghren argued.

"No, I don't want to hear any more, thanks," Alistair held up his hands to stop Oghren from going on, his face turning purple.

"Your loss. I'm gonna go find Nathaniel, see if he'll break open the lock on the tavern for me," he seemed to back-pedal when Cullen glared at him, "er-well, I mean, I'll just... get back to bed, yeah. _Long night_,"

They watched Oghren descend the barracks again and head back into the main hall. Whether or not he broke into the tavern was really none of Cullen's concern but at this rate the Wardens were going to eat and drink them out of house and home. That and the barkeep wouldn't be particularly impressed, especially if it was becoming habit. He'd have to post more guards in that area... then again, the Dwarf had given Iron Bull a black eye... he'd arrange something with Josephine instead.

"Don't mind him," Alistair assured, still grinning disbelievingly, "he always says the worst kinds of things. But, regardless... back to these rumours. Are they true? That you're... _involved_ with her? I've heard so much hearsay, I'm not sure what to believe without asking her,"

Cullen wanted to shrug and make some sort of non-committal noise and gesture with his hands, but even that didn't adequately explain it. Instead he looked away and rubbed his neck, unsure of how _much_ to say, "It didn't start out that way,"

Alistair snorted, "Oh? It didn't _start_-?"

"They were just letters," he cut him off, shaking his head, "but then, over time they started to... to grow more personal, I suppose."

He was surprised at the genuine emotion in Alistair's face, of what seemed to be a sort of curiosity and acceptance. Cullen couldn't say he wasn't wary of what the man would think, especially that he was once fond of Amell, even a bit more romantic with her, and arguably knew her better than Cullen ever did – a fact that made a twist of jealousy turn in his gut. He didn't expect him to look so... open and happy about the rumours of their tentative relationship. Either way it was making him uncomfortable, not really knowing Alistair's intentions.

The man was waving at someone else in the courtyard; when he looked down he could see that pretty elf, Velanna he was sure her name was, making her way down from the main hall.

"You too?" Alistair called down to her.

He didn't hear what she said, but he saw the man smirk. When he turned to him again, there was a lot of warmth in his smile, "I'm glad she's found someone to confide in" he admitted, "just... try to do right by her. She's an incredible woman,"

"That she is," he agreed, "but are you sure you... I mean... weren't you two...?"

He looked confused at first, before his eyes widened and his smile grew disbelievingly. Shaking his head he said, "What... me and Con? _Maker_ no. Well, ten years ago, _maybe_, when we were young and stupid, butnot anymore. _Maker_, that was a long time ago."

As he laughed, something in Cullen's chest that he didn't even realize was there unwound, filling him with relief. Alistair was a handsome, well respected man who obviously held his Commander in high regard, and he wasn't going to lie and say he wasn't a little intimidated by the idea that they were once quite close. He found himself sighing without really meaning too, feeling better about his stance.

Velanna used some natural magics to vault herself up onto the wall, sitting with her legs next to the Warden beside her, looking irritated and tired, "I don't feel like sleeping after that,"

"That bad?" Alistair asked.

"It wasn't for you?"

"I suppose I'm rather used to them,"

"Well I'm _not_,"

Listening to them speak of their nightmares made him wonder if Constance was out there, tossing and turning in her sleep too. Partly, he felt as though he were intruding on something personal, something shared between others but not him and he grew slightly uncomfortable, so he bade the two on the wall goodnight, inclining his head when they returned the gesture, and turned back to return to his quarters.

But didn't he have that feeling before, of feeling like an outsider looking in? Intruding on a life that wasn't really his? It wasn't as though any of them didn't wish to share such information with him, nor did he feel the need to live vicariously through them, but it was a little isolating.

Before he closed the door to his office, he could just about hear Alistair mutter to Velanna, "... Do you feel like raiding the kitchens again? I'm _starving_,"

"You're _always_ starving," she answered shortly, "and no, I don't particularly want to watch you stuff your face like that again,"

"Awh, really? I bet they still have those little Orlesian cakes that you like; the ones with the sliced pear on the top. I _could_ get you one-"

"Bring me three; then _maybe _I'll consider your offer,"

_Honestly_. Josephine was going to kill them.

* * *

Two weeks and a few days, and Cullen wondered how his hair wasn't falling out with how overwrought his nerves were.

It probably showed in the harsh way he was yelling at the recruits in the courtyard, running them through drill after drill after drill until he could see sweat visibly dripping from their brows. He had them practising with their shield techniques while he looked on with a stony expression, daring the next one to mention the Wardens _one more time_. One unlucky recruit mentioned the Hero of Ferelden, _briefly_ – that was four hours ago, and he hadn't stopped putting them through the ringer since.

It wasn't so much the nervousness that was affecting him as it was a terrible sort of excitement. Had Constance not written such things to him he was sure he wouldn't feel nearly as hopeful and emotional knowing she was travelling to Skyhold. He would have been interested and perhaps rather curious to see someone he once knew, yes, but not so pathetically excited that his hands shook just thinking about having her presence near him again.

Over the past few days, he'd taken to re-reading her letters just to assure himself that it was really happening, that she thought of him the way he thought of her. The idea of her returning his affections was... almost unbelievable, but it was there in her letters, there was no mistaking it. He wasn't imagining it or perhaps reading too much into it; it was really, really happening.

Cullen just had no idea what to _do_ about it.

He couldn't say romance was something he had a lot of experience with, if any at all, other than the occasional daydream it was usually the furthest thing from his mind unless it concerned someone else's relationship, such as the one between Cassandra and the Inquisitor. Even then he was the spectator, not the participant. Romance was something that happened around him, not _to_ him.

So what was he going to do, or say? He didn't want to come across as overly eager nor did he want to seem to cold and distant, or shy and awkward. _Maker's Breath_, why was it so complicated?

He had a hard enough time speaking with her in the Tower, how was he going to speak to her now that he knew she had feelings for him?

There were plenty of things he wanted to speak with her about; her heritage, better memories of the Tower, her thoughts on the Inquisition, the events during the Fifth Blight, her opinions on her companions, all of it. But the _initiation_, _the beginning, _how would he go about it? How would he even greet her? Were they so close that he could address her by her first name, or would he stick to her title as a Warden or Warden Commander? So many questions he didn't have answers for, although the daydreams served as an interesting distraction. He thought of her smile, of her smooth grey hair, how she would look when speaking with him or being near him.

Maker but he didn't know if he could take another day thinking about it...

The cool, crisp mountain air breezed through the courtyard, the high afternoon sun beat down onto the sweaty recruits and their less-than-pleased Commander as they continued exhaustedly. He continued to yell out orders and corrections as he kept them going, pausing only to demonstrate proper technique and form.

They all seemed to be doing quite well despite his ire – that was _until_ a Mabari came bounding up from the lower courtyard and entered the training ring with excited abandon, tail wagging furiously. Some recruits stopped what they were doing entirely to fix their attentions on the dog.

"Is that... a pure-bred Mabari?!" One of them exclaimed, bending slightly to rub the dog's haunches.

"Looks like it," another answered, rubbing the dog's neck and head with fervour, "Maker, I haven't seen one outside of Ferelden, and even then they're only common among the nobles."

Rolling his eyes, Cullen entered the ring and ordered; "Alright, get back to your training, all of you,"

"This isn't your dog, Commander?"

Some of them followed the command, but then others were stopping to lavish their affections on the hound. It was easy to see which recruits were Ferelden and which were Orlesian judging by the way they reacted to the dog's presence. The Ferelden ones approached with animated glee. The Orlesians on the other hand hung back with cautious optimism – Mabari were big, powerful dogs after all.

The dog sniffed around, huffing at the attention being poured on him. Cullen couldn't really help but reach out to give it a scratch behind the ears before he would attempt to guide it out of the ring and let the recruits get back to their training. The dog looked up with knowing brown eyes and sniffed his hand, immediately sitting down with attentive ears as though waiting for an order from him, as though it knew his station.

"Looks like he knows you, Commander," one of the Ferelden recruits said, "my uncle used to train them, you know. You sure he's not yours?"

"I've never seen this dog before..." he answered, looking over the dog a little more thoroughly.

Its short hair was painted with a swirling, tinted kaddis. Its collar wasn't so much a band as it was an armoured harness; large metal plates protected the barrelling chest and wide shoulders over a smooth, blue coat secured around the chest and neck. Cullen bent down on one knee to examine it further, taking the dog's head in his hands and giving its neck a good rub. It whined in response.

"There's a good boy," he assured, taking a look at the armoured plate, "now where's your Master, eh?"

There was detailing on the protective plating there, and upon examination he could see the Grey Warden crest and embellishments standing out in the relief. Cullen's brow twisted in confusion. Wardens weren't known for their hounds, much less for recruiting them or armouring them. Could a dog even become a Grey Warden?

Then it dawned on him.

"Are... are you... _Dogmeat_?" He found himself asking the dog, though it was a more open ended question than it was directed at the animal. Its hot, raw breath fanned across his face as it huffed and held up a wide paw in an offer – _a greeting_.

Any Ferelden worth their salt knew how intelligent the Mabari were – he knew the dog understood his question, otherwise it wouldn't have acknowledged him in such a manner. He took the dog's paw and shook it, muttering, "Nice to finally meet you," before letting it back down to the ground and watched as its ears twisted this way and that, sitting as still as a statue otherwise.

If that was Dogmeat - if he was _here_... _then_...

Cullen made to get up, his heart starting to beat that much faster in realization, a loud buzzing noise filling his ears. His face and ears and chest filled with warm, excited heat. When he stood, he barely even noticed he had done so until he looked down at the dog staring up at him, waiting for him, _knowing_ him in some way. He looked around, wondering, hoping-

And that was when he saw her. The beginnings of a head full of grey hair started to appear at the top of the stone stairs leading up to the courtyard – Dogmeat beside him was wagging his tail, as though he could sense the way Cullen's heart stuttered to a stop in his chest.

She made her way to the top of the stairs like she had all the time in the world, her Warden armour glittering in the high sun, shielding her eyes from the light with a gloved hand as she looked around the Keep with interest, taking in the turrets and banners and expansiveness of it all. As she made that last step he could see her look across to the training ring, instantly catching his eye.

He watched her falter slightly, her face dropping as her mouth formed a small, surprised O. Time ground to a halt as their gazes met and, without really giving a thought to what he was doing, he found his feet had begun to move, carrying him forward. In his peripheral vision, an arc of electricity flew off her hand and struck the nearest banner pole.

It didn't seem real, but there she was, clear and pure as day and he watched her expression soften into something he couldn't quite put his finger on; _reciprocation_, perhaps, _agreement, acknowledgement, acceptance – __**Maker**_. He strode forward with such purpose it was a wonder the ground wasn't quaking, and she started to move too, until they were matching each other step for step in their approach, moving together.

There was no time for second thoughts, no words or wonderings about what he was doing or how it would seem; he spent so long obsessing over it but what did it really matter when faced with Constance Amell, in the flesh? Looking at _him_ the same way _he _was looking at _her?_

_Without a thought _he closed the distance between them, reaching out to scoop her about the waist into his arms, and kissed her like it was his last action on this earth. She moulded into him like she was made to be there, her hands cradling his face and her breath sharply catching in her mouth.

It was _perfect_, it was _beautiful_, it was everything he _dreamed_ it would be on those lonely nights in the Tower and more recently those lonelier nights in Skyhold, a rush of heat and passion and reciprocated adoration. Her mouth was warm and inviting and she smelled like the mountain air in the Frostbacks, he could feel the shake in her breath through her nose as she exhaled – and wondered if she had been nervous too.

Past the flood of heat in his stomach, filling him from his feet to the top of his head, he couldn't feel anything other than how _good_ she felt in his arms at last, returning his kiss like she'd been anticipating it, waiting for it, thinking on it as much as he did.

His breath was dizzyingly deep as he pulled away, only so much that their lips still brushed, their foreheads touched. When he opened his eyes he could see hers were closed, could feel her thumbs caressing his jaw, and as he loosened his grip slightly on her waist he wondered where he got the gall, the audacity to kiss her like that, and why it felt so incredibly _right_.

Behind him, in what he presumed was once a shocked silence turned into a plethora of cheering and wolf-whistling. Somewhere he could hear Dorian (by the Tavern, probably) loudly exclaim, "Andraste's flaming _tits! Where_ is Varric?! That Dwarf owes me twenty sovereigns. _Twenty!_" Iron Bull let out a hearty laugh at it.

Constance gave a breathy chuckle, opening up those incredible eyes and gazing up at him, her thumbs smoothing over the stubble on his jaw, "H-hello, Cullen,"

He grinned, barely believing it, and kissed her again, and _again_, wanting to lose himself in it, wanting to carrying her up to his office, strip her and make love to her right there on the desk. But there was a time and a place for such passion and it wasn't in the courtyard in front of the recruits and other members of the Inquisition, so he gently pulled away despite the elation, and looked down at the woman he hadn't seen in ten long years.

She'd barely changed. Her hair was shorter, cut in a choppier style than he remembered, but was still as smooth and shiny as it was in his memory. Her face had lost that youthful roundness, but gave way to high, classical cheekbones and an elegant brow – she was just as beautiful as he recalled... and just as _short_. When she leaned back down from off her toes he found she barely came up to his chin.

"I'm sorry," he found himself saying, stumbling slightly over the words, "that was... um..."

But there weren't any words for how wonderful and perfect it was, or how wonderful and perfect _she_ was to him at that moment. She was flushed quite prettily from the neckline up; embarrassed, she smiled and looked away, coughing into her hand. He found himself scratching the back of his neck, unsure of what to say even after he'd obsessed over it for days – but then he supposed he wasn't expecting...

"S-so," she began, looking around, "this is Skyhold..."

Cullen released a shuddering, grounding breath and affirmed; "It is. I will... introduce you to our Ambassador. I think she has made some arrangements for you."

As he gestured towards the Keep, she nodded and he had to remind himself it was all very much reality and not a dream. They fell into step after he barked at the lazing recruits to continue their training, letting Iron Bull take over where he left off. Dogmeat flanked her other side as he veered her towards the main hall.

His legs wobbled with every step upwards, but her smile was kicking adrenaline into his veins, making his heart skip a few terrifying beats. The rest of Skyhold would be talking about it for weeks; he'd be lucky if any of those recruits would be able to take him seriously after the day was over-

But it was very hard to care about that, when her arm brushed against his as they made their way into the main hall.

_Maker_, Josephine and Leliana were going to have a field day with this one.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Notes:** Sometimes when I write, I feel the need to write things that I don't really want to write because I'm stuck or because I feel like I need to explain something -

But then I think - fuck it this is **my** story and I will write whatever the hell I want.

And I do.

* * *

Most residents of Skyhold were a little star-struck when introduced to the Hero of Ferelden, a little overly enthusiastic. When Constance entered the main hall, what few Wardens were there instantly stood at attention, saluting at their chests once they recognised her, and it only took a moment of realization for the nobles there to put two and two together to realize who had just entered.

Within a few seconds she was swamped with introductions from Orlesian and Ferelden noble houses and she took it all rather gracefully, thanking them for their consideration. He could see their eyes lighting up, not by being faced with the woman who ended a civil war and the Fifth Blight, but with the_ idea_ of speaking with her. Those who left Skyhold would be speaking of it for weeks in much the same way many of them spoke of having met Cassandra Penteghast, Hero of Orlais, Right Hand of the Divine etcetera etcetera. That kind of disingenuous carry-on truly irritated him, but she took it quite gracefully; shook their hands, answered their questions, apologised for having to leave but had matters to attend to, and so on.

Whether she was used to the attention or not, he didn't know, but she certainly seemed to know how to handle herself. Cullen led her away from the crowd towards Josephine's office, holding open the door as she not so much as walked as floated inside.

When faced with their Spymaster for what must have been he first time since the Blight, he heard Constance choke out the name; "_Leliana_," before rushing forward as he heard the Orlesian gasp. Tears welled up in Leliana's eyes as they embraced, and it was a very long time before they let go of each other.

He supposed... when listening to how Leliana spoke of her on that night in his office, he was aware of how fond of the Mage she was, and it showed in the tightness of her arms around her, in the way she buried her head into the crook of her neck and shoulder. It was returned with equal fervour, and when they broke away Leliana grabbed her hands and held them like she was frightened of missing any form of contact.

"_Maker have Mercy_ but I have missed you, my friend," the Spymaster choked out.

"And _I_ have missed you,"

"You are probably exhausted from your travels; come, I will show you to your quarters. We must catch up after you have had some rest. It is _good_ to see you again,"

Leliana linked her arm with Constance and swept her out of the room without another word; the Warden gave him an apologetic smile as she walked by him, one that said she would try to see him again soon and his stomach rolled excitedly at the idea. Behind him, he could hear Josephine sigh.

"She'd been looking forward to her visit for_ days_ now," she said, "I suppose we can speak with the Warden Commander in the morning, once she has rested. I will make arrangements with the Inquisitor in the mean time."

The Antivan placed her quill down and rose a brow at him after sanding her work, "... I heard you gave the Warden Commander _quite_ the greeting. The rest of Skyhold will be speaking of it for weeks,"

Colour filled his cheeks, although he couldn't help the embarrassed smirk that spread across his face, "That was only a few minutes ago. How did you hear of it so quickly,"

"Leliana so happens to have an excellent view of the Courtyard from her balcony. How very romantic of you, Commander,"

He didn't bother responding to the woman's goading, although he didn't really know what to respond with. He walked back to his office in a wobbling, dizzy daze and continued to stay in that state for the rest of the day, equally as excited to see her again as he was being terribly impatient about it. But now that she was finally in Skyhold, it would be a matter of hours instead of weeks, instead of uncertainty.

If people – troops, guards, hands, _friends_ – were aware of what happened in the courtyard, they were trying their best not to mention it to him, possibly because they didn't want to incur his wrath. Still, a great many of them seemed to note his good mood for the rest of the day, some of them with barely contained laughter (Dorian, Varric) and others with soft, knowing eyes and smiles (Cole, Cassandra).

The news of her arrival spread like a wildfire throughout the keep – he could scantly take a few steps without overhearing someone mention her by name or title. There were those who were unimpressed or even angry at the notion, such as Vivienne who didn't seem to agree with the Wardens gross misuse of magic and even to some degree a few begrudging soldiers from Orlais who didn't like the Ferelden heraldry. Most, however, seemed excited at the prospect of such a famous hero in their midst.

They held a meeting early in the morning; the Inquisitor seemed quite star-struck in meeting with her, even though their accomplishments were so similar in number, _he_ perhaps even more than the Warden. He watched as her face lit up in fascination when examining the Mark on the Qunari's hand – she asked the usual questions that most tended to; how did he get it, what could it do, and would he be willing to offer a demonstration of its power. The Inquisitor agreed to show her in due time.

Alistair joined them with the information he had from Weisshaupt, and they spent most of the morning explaining, at her request, _in great detail_, the nature of the Breach and of Corypheus.

He couldn't help but think, as he looked at her from across the War Table, that she looked like she very much belonged there. Constance Amell was the picture of professionalism, and he supposed she had ten long, arduous years as a Commander to build such a front. What was once a young, almost shy girl was now a powerful woman, and the sight alone of her straight, proud posture and intelligent gaze was enough to wrest his full attention.

She occasionally stopped their recount to ask a question; did Corypheus seem to command Darkspawn? Did his "Archdemon" seem to command Darkspawn? Did they know his whereabouts in between encounters? Could they trace the artefact he carried back to specific Elven or Tevinter places or moments in history? What would happen if the Inquisitor were to close every single Rift? Would he have the Mark forever? Now that magic was more widely accessible with the thinning of the Veil, what measures did they have in place to ensure the safety of both Mages and the people of Thedas?

They answered as best they could, but it was becoming increasingly obvious how much work and research was ahead for the Inquisition, and that worried him more than it should have. He could see the tightness in her brow as more and more of her questions went unanswered, but she seemed happy enough with the work accomplished thus far.

News from Weisshaupt was not good; as Alistair told them of the in-fighting and grasping at power in the Fortress, he didn't bother hiding the fact that none of the Warden Chamberlains or High Constables could agree on their official stance. He said that they seemed to be keeping secrets from each other, that their petty squabbles were ending in stalemates – Constance shook her head and said she would try to address them as best she could, but wasn't holding her breath.

She agreed to aid them in their research, something which seemed to make Alistair shift about rather uncomfortably. First, however, she wished to address more pressing matters of increasing Darkspawn activity in the areas reported, and was happy to take over the Command of the remaining Wardens until they had more information from Weisshaupt. He offered use of his office perhaps a little too eagerly; she smiled, and perhaps a little too quickly accepted the offer.

Seeing how efficient she was within her role, he thrilled at the idea of working even closer with her, his mind instantly conjuring up images of their proximity reduced to almost nothing, working together in service to the people of Thedas – a romantic notion, sure, but one that didn't fail to fill him with barely-contained glee.

They broke after she told them she would prepare a brief detailing the information she felt was relevant, and he offered to show her the tower where she would be working. _With him_. In the Tower. For an unforeseeable amount of time. _Maker_.

"I appreciate the offer, Cullen. Thank you," she said as they made their way through Solas's old study before exiting onto the battlements, "I have a great deal of work ahead of me,"

He didn't fail to notice he subtle way their arms brushed, the way she pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear as she looked up at him, or the pink in her cheeks and lips.

He shrugged and said, "It is no trouble. Our work coincides, it makes more sense this way,"

She hummed in agreement, but they both knew it wasn't the only reason, nor the most important one.

He showed her his office, apologising for the rather haphazard mess across the desk and bookcases, to which she laughed and brushed off, saying that she understood more than she would admit. As they poured over a map of the surrounding area he gave her a quick overview of where most of the Wardens not at Skyhold were stationed, and tried not to pay too much attention to the tingling sensation whenever their hands touched across the map.

Iron Bull and Blackwall managed to heft a desk into the room some time later; she instructed them to place it between the front and left side door, in the corner, while she left to retrieve what information Nathaniel and Sigrun gathered.

It was late evening by the time she managed to sift through the small hill of reports, maps and books left by her fellow Wardens, sighing and squeezing the bridge of her nose as she levitated notes of importance to the side of the desk. In that time he had handed his messenger the latest missives, reports, and settled matters with Captains wishing to speak with him. Some of them watched Constance with mild interest that she was sharing office space with him, but said nothing.

It was all very strange how... natural it felt to have her there, despite how incredibly distracting her presence was. In the Tower, she couldn't walk past him without drawing his attention so completely that it was a wonder how he got any work done at all, and yet working next to her after all that time was almost like a salve on a burn – relieving a dull ache that he barely knew was there before he felt the _relief_.

She worked in much the same way she did in the Tower, which led him to believe that she hadn't changed much at all. Constance casually used magic to levitate, move and sort her work around her like it was the most natural thing – as one would use their own hands. She surrounded herself with it, poured over it with single-minded concentration, and much in the way he watched her then he was very much watching her now, admiring the view.

In that same way he found her in the Tower, he watched her look over a report in her hand, her brow furrowing, the dust hanging in the air illuminated by the falling sun outside cast a glow around her, and he couldn't help but think on how beautiful, how incredible she looked.

And just like in the Tower, she raised her head and turned to look at him, and he found himself rather gob-smacked and awestruck, and very much caught in the act. His words failed him, as did his actions.

She smiled, looked back down; he could see the beginnings of a laugh starting in her shoulders, and as he rubbed the back of his neck he found he was starting to laugh too. Placing the report on the desk, she held her forehead in her hands and chuckled, "I fear I won't be able to concentrate on this. I am... much too distracted."

"I am distracting you, then?"

"More than you should know," she said, smirking, turning fully to face him, "I don't think I will be able to keep my attentions on my work for much longer. Besides, I have been wanting to speak with you properly since I have arrived. _If_... you are not too busy, would you like to share a drink?"

His heart somersaulted against his sternum, "Of course. I would... like that,"

He left to raid the stocks for a a bottle of wine, ended up taking two with him - just in case - and left a note for Josephine that he would replace them when he found the time. When he returned to his office in the dimming daylight he found she had stolen a chair from the dining hall, and was busying herself trying to sort out the mess on her desk.

They sat together, across from each other, she at the side of his desk and he behind it, and she asked him to tell her how he had been recruited as the Inquisiton's Commander. Taking the glass from his hand with a thanks, she sipped the expensive Tevinter vin with appreciation, and listened as he told her about the events in Kirkwall and his short term as the impromptu Knight-Commander in Meredith's stead.

They spoke for... _hours_. It only really felt like a short amount of time, but he noticed it in the way the candles burned down lower in their holders. They were interrupted, _once_, by one of Leliana's messengers – the man didn't know where to look between them, the wine, and the obvious intimacy of their proximity. He left the report on the desk and stuttered out an apology, leaving so fast he nearly knocked the door off its hinges.

Topics ranged from Kirkwall to the beginnings of the Inquisition, then at length about Varric (apparently she had read Tales of the Champion, became interested in his work, and then tried and failed to read more because of how ridiculous she found the novels) and his friendship with Ulysses Hawke. She seemed saddened that the Champion died at Adamant, and then the topic changed to Clarel and other Warden Mages.

She staunchly disapproved of forbidden magic and demon summoning, although she did enjoy discovering new spells or forgotten magics once they didn't require sacrifices or blood. Whatever Clarel's stance on such topics were, they impacted even the Ferelden Wardens after all of Constance's work to breed positive attitudes and intelligent, helpful magic practice among the Mages under her. She was visibly angry about the woman's actions, but could see the futility in holding on to such rage.

Most Mages she had trained herself, such as Tanner, and encouraged them to train others as they travelled. They spoke of Amaranthine and the good humour and companionship among the Warden ranks there – to which he was able to empathise with the Inquisition. He supposed, though both Commanders in their own rights they were once recruits, and they knew war just as much as they knew the reprieve between with friends.

"_Completely naked?!_" Constance nearly choked on her wine, "Are you really _that bad_ at Wicked Grace?!"

She was laughing, placing her wine on the edge of the desk like she was afraid of dropping it, and fanned her face as tears formed in her eyes.

"I'm not _that_ bad," he protested, "she won every single hand!"

"Even your-"

"Yes, even my small-clothes,"

Constance cracked up, tears rolling down her cheeks; it was a damn sight better than the quiet rage she was exhibiting when talking about Clarel, that was for sure. Despite her well-bred, smooth diction and neutral accent, her laugh was hearty and uplifting, loud and genuine. She laughed without care for who heard it, laughed like it came from somewhere deep and honest.

"_Maker_, what I would have given to be a fly on the wall," she said, wiping the tears from her face and picking up her glass again, "ah, but you sound like you enjoy it here."

Cullen leaned back in his chair, "I do. It's hard work, but the Inquisition has been good to me; certainly better than the alternative. I shudder to think what I would have become if I stayed with the Templars."

Something in her eyes softened, "Indeed. Speaking of... how are you feeling lately? Are you still...?"

"I am... alright," he said, looking at her intently, "it comes and goes. I am having a lucky reprieve for the moment. The gift you sent helped me through some of the worst of it,"

"Good. That is good,"

_Maker_ but she looked incredible. It only really hit him then how openly they had been speaking, how candid they had been with each other, and it felt foreign, though not unpleasant. Far from it. Those gorgeous blue eyes had never seemed so frank until just then, and with a jolt he realized he'd never spoken at such length with her. In the Tower, he would have been an absolute mess of nerves-

But now he was sharing with her the stories of his life, and felt like it was the most natural thing in the world. So what had changed?

_They_ had changed, surely, they had grown out of their childish demeanour to their stations and ranks, but something between them was different. So many things they wrote in those letters broke that wall down between them, the one that reduced them to shy exchanges and lonely evenings instead of actually sharing something more complete.

But wasn't that _something_ still there...? Wasn't there still _something_ unsaid...?

"I hope you know how much trouble that gift got me into," he said, as she held out her glass while he filled it up, "since its arrival at Skyhold the gossip spread like a disease, possibly helped in some part by that mouthy Mage you are so fond of,"

"Aha, yes, Tanner does have a tendency to go on a bit, I will admit. I-I didn't mean to get you into trouble-"

"Well if they weren't talking then, they are certainly talking now," he chided in mockery, "although, I suppose I only have myself to blame for that,"

His mouth tingled in remembrance at the kiss they shared in the courtyard. He resisted the urge to run the tips of his gloved fingers against them, and instead chose to take another sip of wine.

"I take it you care little for their gossip, then,"

"I would rather my private affairs stay that way. But there is something to be said for the boost in morale that such gossip grants the troops – _Maker_ knows why,"

Her mouth twisted into a knowing smirk, "Perhaps they saw something in you fulfilled – it certainly seemed like something that was important or, dare I say, even needed. It had a certain... _urgency_ to it."

It took him a moment to realize she was talking about the kiss, and his face instantly filled with blood. He cleared his throat, catching her gaze and for a few moments the air between them crackled with heat. There was an honest intensity in her face and it jarred him to the core, he felt his adam's apple bob when her gaze slipped down to his mouth.

There was a stunned silence between them, until she quietly broke it with a reserved smile, "... Maker, you are _incredibly_ attractive,"

He gave a breathy, awkward laugh because he honestly wasn't sure what to say to that; his mind simply went blank as he turned over what she said again and again, the only thing really coming to mind was how he _very much_ felt the same for her. Even more, perhaps. His kiss probably felt urgent because it _was_ urgent; he just hoped he hadn't turned her off... although, given her words, she certainly didn't sound-

He only realized he'd been silent when she looked away, embarrassed, and made to stand up, stretching her arms over her head, "I should... probably get back to my quarters. It is very late, after all..."

He was going to get up to see her out, the disappointment rooting tightly in his gut, but something in her eyes told him to stay. He didn't know if it was the wine or the fact that he'd kissed her earlier in the day, but there was a warmth to her face that he couldn't put his finger on. Constance's approach slightly closer to him was slow, calculated, and it kept him quite firmly in his seat.

She reached out, rolling the fur on his shoulders between her fingers, "I quite like this... it looks good on you,"

Cullen watched her face as she admired it, leaning over him, and the closeness of their bodies was both entirely too much and not nearly enough, hanging there like a tease.

Her eyes flicked to him, unfathomably deep blue, "Goodnight, Cullen,"

As she leaned down to press her lips against his, his pulse raced as his eyes fluttered closed. Hadn't he dreamed of her doing something like that on so many lonely nights in the Tower? It was slow, soft, but _terribly_ intimate. He could feel every sweet sinew of her lips pressed against his, moulding to his shape.

Constance's gloved hands came up to cradle his face like she did in the courtyard, her thumbs smooth and flat on his jaw. A shudder tingled down his spine as her fingers laced through the sensitive hair at the nape of his neck, and for a moment he felt a little lost, even a little scared, and it only increased when, after a few more moments of soft, gentle kissing he could feel the tentative press of her tongue licking against the seam of his lips.

He couldn't really _help_ the moan that escaped him when he parted his mouth and then her _tongue_ slid slowly into him – it just sort of happened, and he was sure it sounded ridiculous but there was no taking it back. His fingers tightened on the wooden rests of his chair, hips involuntarily rolling up as the pleasure forked down his back.

Such a kiss... he'd never really experienced one, not like _that, _and he didn't really know what to _do_ other than let her continue.

He knew what he _wanted_ to do. He wanted to sweep all of the papers and scrolls off of his desk, pick her up and take her, hot and fast on the surface of it. The thought made his cock ache, made his hips do that roll again when her tongue laved against his, so slow it was almost a sin, but that was just what it was; just a thought, and he couldn't follow through with it.

Even though it was his honest truth, his upbringing told him very different. If he were to take her on the desk he was sure she probably wouldn't have protested, and he could picture her quite clearly with her legs over his shoulders as he grasped her hips, driving himself into that tight, wet heat that so many Templars bragged about attaining when they went to the Blooming Rose in Kirkwall. He could imagine the desk jerking and groaning under the strain, could picture how she would look under him, gasping, crying his name – but his body wouldn't move.

The lust was there, and probably always would be though none of them would ever admit it in the Chantry – there was no getting rid of it, only _containing_ it, and the tight reign that he always had over that baser part of himself felt more like a thin, breakable veneer with her tongue in his mouth.

The Chantry still had that sway over him. _This is inappropriate. But Maker, I want to._

_I've always wanted to... _

His breath was harsh through his nose, he wanted nothing more than to drag her onto his lap, deepen the kiss ever further, but was too terrified to take it. So he settled instead to lean his head back to allow her more room, and she lavished his mouth with such light attention that he marvelled at every second.

Despite the hardening of his cock and the heavy, racing beat of his heart and how his hands grasped the chair with such tightness his knuckles were probably turning white, he stayed still and took what she was offering with every ounce of gratitude he could muster.

_This is a kiss_, he thought, _a real one_, and he wondered why he hadn't tried something like that sooner. Her tongue rolled with his, retreated, their lips met, then back again; her nose pressed against his cheek, and he could hear the harsh drags of breath through it, thinking on how she was feeling too, past the intensity of it all.

It was probably chaste. Chaste and inexperienced and incredibly tame, but the heat was blistering. The woman he spent years dreaming of was kissing him in a way that made promises of more, and its effect wasn't lost on him at all. When she pulled away they were both a little breathless, both a little red-faced and unsure of each other, but the fondness and the intimacy of it all nearly reduced him to tears.

"...I have wanted to do that for _years_," she laughed and looked away, and the tight hold that he had over his lust nearly came completely undone in that moment – because he could imagine her pining for him the way he did for her, bringing herself to orgasm at the thoughts of him, and the image made him shudder in his seat. _She wants this too,_ he thought, but he couldn't take the opportunity, couldn't risk ruining the beautiful moment.

He sighed deeply at the warmth of her forehead against his, at the press of her nose and the soft hold of her hands on his jaw and said, "I can't believe we've been doing this for hours. Quite the change from what things once were, don't you think?"

She chuckled, pulling away from him, "A good change, I think. I don't believe I would have had the courage to do this in the Tower,"

"Nor would have I, despite how much I wanted to,"

He stood, putting his hand on the small of her back as they made their way out into the cool night air of the barracks, bringing down the heat in his cheeks, "I will escort you back to your quarters,"

"The more things change, it is nice to see that little things stay the same," she said, looking up at him, "I used to cherish the little moments like this in the Circle,"

"Like _this_?"

"You, walking me back to my quarters after working well into the night, _again_. Me, trying not to make too much of a fool of myself,"

Cullen snorted and rose a brow at her, "You worried about making a fool of yourself in front of _me_? Need I remind you that I once set another man on fire because I was so focused on you?"

As she laughed, he felt his heart soar a little bit. The night was cool and breezy, whipping her hair around her face as they made their way across the right of the barracks towards the kitchens. He wondered how much Alistair and Velanna raided their stocks on the night he found them on the wall. He wondered if Josephine knew of their nightly exploits.

Cullen wondered how much of those side-effects Constance felt, as part of her being a Warden.

The thought struck him as odd, even though he was very much aware of her rank and station, it never really occurred to him that she was actually part of the order before he really examined it, and it awoke a hunger in him to know more about what being a Warden entailed. Were there parts of it she found unpleasant?

A conversation for another time, perhaps...

He heard her sigh as they reached the entrance to the keep, "I believe we have successfully managed the trip without messing up _too_ much," she said, smiling, "so I will leave you here. You best get back soon - the night is cold. Thank you for this evening, I... I really needed this,"

As her hair blew into her face he watched her push it aside with her hand, smoothing it along her scalp, and couldn't help but agree with her. The open honesty in her eyes spoke a lot of how she _did_ need it, and it left him to ponder the implications of what she was saying.

He felt the need to comfort, to reassure taking over, to clarify himself in some way to tell her he knew what she was feeling, _not exactly_, but something similar, and he remembered something that she wrote to him after he confessed the true nature of his feelings for her-

_Receiving these letters over this time has been one of the few shining lights in all this darkness – there was a moment when they felt like all that kept me going on this journey..._

Cullen gently took her face in his hands, looking down, remembering how he would have given anything to touch her so intimately in the Circle, and said, "As have I,"

The kiss then was long, slow, and incredibly reluctant to end, but it didn't stoke the fire in him that her earlier kiss hand – the promise he felt in it spoke of something comforting, something reassuring, and somehow _that_ was more jarring than the slow, sensual dance between their tongues earlier.

He wanted to convey somehow that he he would give her whatever she needed, if she asked him, that he was there for her if she wanted to speak of her journey or if she simply wanted someone to hold her, but the words wouldn't come out, so his kiss would have to suffice.

Constance gripped his hand as he pulled away, almost like she didn't really want to let him go, but smiled shyly and went to open the door behind her regardless, "Goodnight, Cullen,"

He returned the grip, "And you, Constance,"

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Notes:** I know, I know I missed another deadline. It's been a crazy week, a weak excuse I know but I honestly haven't sat in front of my PC until now. It was also my 8 year anniversary! Yay!

I'm not married, so technically it's not an anniversary, BUT I do what I want, and I want to say it's an anniversary, so there. Nyeh.

Be warned there are some NSFW mentions in this chapter.

Has anyone watched that clip of Greg Ellis on Nip Tuck talking about auto-erotic asphyxiation? Actual fucking Christ I cannot unhear this.

* * *

Cullen couldn't say, after finding out about all of his lies and the horrific actions of his past that he particularly liked Blackwall. Despite his willingness to own up to his past actions and make amends, to accept his punishment, Cullen couldn't find it in himself to have trust or faith in the man anymore, and as the former Orlesian Capitan entered his office with trepidation, his brow furrowed suspiciously. He'd heard that the man preferred to go by his moniker, and since he wasn't particularly pushed either way what the man did as long as it didn't interfere with his own work, he granted the man that boon, at least.

"Is... uh," Blackwall started, worrying his fingers together, "is the Lady Warden Commander around?"

Cullen shuffled the papers on his desk, "She stepped out for a moment, she should be back shortly,"

He was curt, clipped even and he could see the effect it had on the man who continued to move uncomfortably. _Lady Warden Commander?_ He supposed technically that was correct, she was an Arl after all, although he doubted she would be entirely happy with such politeness. Constance didn't seem to enjoy titles and the overuse of etiquette so much.

"Do you think she would consider recruiting me?" Blackwall asked after some time, "I-I already ran it by the Inquisitor before considering it..."

The Commander shrugged, not looking up from his work, mildly irritated that the man continued to speak to him after he made it quite clear that he felt he wasn't to be trusted, "I couldn't say; you will have to ask her,"

Constance walked through the left side door a bare few seconds after, carrying a box of scrolls in both arms piled up to her chin. She dropped the box on her desk puffed air out of the corner of her mouth, fluttering her fringe and turned to them, folding her arms, "Something wrong?"

"My Lady, I wonder if I might speak with you?" Blackwall implored.

"We are speaking now," she replied easily, and the man shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"I am sure you have heard of me from your comrades," he said, "I doubt I have done much to garner their trust-"

"I have heard of you, and I have heard of your actions," she cut across him, quietly but in a manner that demanded he listen, "what do you wish of me?"

"I... I-I know it might sound hypocritical, given the circumstances, but I wish to join the Order. I ask that you conscript me,"

Cullen watched as his plea dissolved over her face, melting what was previously an icy demeanour. She hung her head after a few moments and gestured to the door leading out onto the barracks that she just entered, "Very well. Let us speak of it,"

They left, and after some time she returned alone, saying nothing of the conversation she and Blackwall shared. He wasn't expecting an explanation or even for it to come up in conversation - Warden affairs were very much her business and even Leliana didn't have a good idea of the ins and outs of their movements. So he left it alone; if she wanted to speak with him of it she would.

That was until Warden Alistair joined her in the office some hours later with a map of the Storm Coast, and Cullen found he was given the information of their conversation regardless.

He'd been watching the curve of her back while she bent over the desk, her Warden cohort on the other side of her while they glared down at map with serious expressions. The distraction of the swell of her angled hip as she leaned to one side caught his attention, despite trying his best to not look overlong lest he make his perversion known... she always did have the most round, most _fantastic_ ar-

"What about missing people," she looked up at the blonde across from her, "can you tell me of anyone being taken?"

"Not that I can see here... although I do have a report of a fishing boat going missing. The wreckage was found by the opening down the far end, just _here_. No bodies, but they could have washed out to sea,"

"Hmm... you're right. We can't rule that out,"

She shifted from one foot to the other, rolling her hips just _so_, and Cullen looked away quickly as heat crept into his cheeks. Since her kiss those few days ago, he'd returned to his quarters that night and been so consumed with lust that he could barely sleep. He'd brought himself to his peak three times over, and each he came harder than the last, with the taste of wine and _her_ in his mouth and the subtle smell of mountain air and whatever sweet soap she used in her hair surrounding him.

They had since fallen into a nice routine of working together – she brought tea with her from the kitchens for both of them, he took all of her messages and sent them with his runner.

Since her kiss, he hadn't had the chance to get so close to her again. Their work was taking up the majority of their time, and she spent most of hers travelling to and from the library while he mostly stayed stuck co-ordinating relief efforts from his office.

Not that he was complaining abut the privilege of spending so much time around her...

Constance sighed, spreading her hands out on the desk, "Alright, what else did you notice?"

"Six different openings, mostly around_ this_ area, a lot of spider and deepstalker entrails found a bit deeper in... _er_, from what I gathered in this report here, they appear more violent than usual – an Inquisition scout group escaped with six dead, two survivors... torn apart, the report says. The Darkspawn took what they ripped off, apparently."

"One or two is a coincidence, but three... that's a pattern."

"You don't think...?"

"It could be," Constance straightened, "we can't say for sure."

Cullen watched them partly with a mild fascination, but mostly with a heavy heart. Constance had given them a run-through of the events she felt would interest the Inquisition, The Architect, The Mother, talking Darkspawn consuming Warden flesh, how similar it all felt to Corypheus – she'd since been trying to develop a timeline in which they could work from when not sending orders to her troops. He didn't exactly mean to feel the way he did, to feel isolated or bothered that she was part of this whole other world that didn't include him, but when he saw her speaking with Alistair the way she was, it rooted tightly in his gut.

There was also the fact that she'd only given them a vague idea of what she discovered on her travels, saying she_ still had leads that needed following up_, and that once she had more information she would let them know, but to be honest he wasn't holding his breath.

Wardens were terribly secretive, even if she had been rather forthcoming since her arrival.

"This will need further investigation," she said to Alistair, who straightened up from the map, "I will entrust you with this task; take Sigrun and Velanna with you. Sigrun knows the Deep Roads better than anyone... perhaps consider taking Oghren as well. If it _is _a Broodmother, he will know."

"_Hmm_, good idea,"

"This is only an investigation Alistair; do not engage if you find our theory is correct. Send word, and I will send more men to aid you if you need them."

"Alright. Anything else?"

"There is one more thing," she said, her face becoming a mask of authority, "Blackwall, or rather, the man _calling_ himself Blackwall; he approached me earlier; he wishes to join the Wardens. Take him under your charge in this investigation,"

Alistair spluttered, his face contorting in fury, "_Absolutely not,_" he spat.

Cullen watched as the mask she'd adopted became harder, her eyes sparking, her mouth turning into a thin line; it wasn't frightening or intimidating, but it held a sort of gravity that demanded her commands were obeyed, and he found himself a little impressed.

"It was not a request, Alistair,"

"You know what he did to the men under his command; do you _really_ want to work alongside a man like that? Do you really trust him not to use this as an opportunity to escape his crimes?"

"I am very aware of his crimes," she retorted smoothly, "as I am aware of his attempt to atone for them. He is an excellent warrior, trained by Chevaliers and Orlesian Champions, and right now we cannot afford to turn down able-bodied men after so many were lost at Adamant. If you do not wish to take him under your charge then Oghren will do the job, but either way he _will _go through the Joining."

"_You can't be serious._ He ordered his men to kill _children_, for _gold_. Then he laid the blame on those under him and wore another man's face, a _Warden's_ face while they were left to rot in prison-"

"Alistair, I am aware of what did, believe me, but this is not the first time a criminal has been conscripted and it certainly won't be the last. You of all people should know what it means to cast your past life aside for the Order,"

He could see the rage visibly redden the blonde's cheeks, in the grit of his teeth and the hard set to his jaw, but it was obvious that Constance was not backing down. "He may have betrayed the men under his command years ago," she continued, "but that is not the man he is now. I would appreciate if you could give him the benefit of the doubt and take him with you to The Storm Coast."

When Alistair answered her, it was tightly; "Very well, _Commander_,"

He swept out of the room after that, angry and leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake. On the other side of the room he could hear Constance sigh deeply and hang her head, her shoulders sagging.

Cullen looked over at her with concern in his eyes. She looked tired, defeated; he knew something of such arguments, particularly with Leliana and Josephine and the occasional heated words with his Captains - often leaving people upset on both sides, and though she exhibited a calm collectivity, it was a very different story when Alistair left the office. "Are you alright?"

She blew a long puff of air out of her nose, "I'm fine," she said, "I am sorry you had to see that. Alistair and I are good friends, but we do not always see eye-to-eye. He has been... confrontational, since Adamant,"

Whenever she spoke of the destruction of the fortress, she got this solemn look to her eyes that worried him. He supposed if Skyhold had been in the same position he would have felt upset and defeated too, so he could only guess as to how devastated she must feel.

She looked over at him, linking her arms behind her back, "May I ask; what do _you_ think of Blackwall? You have worked closer with him than I. Do you think I made the right decision?"

Cullen rubbed his chin as he contemplated the question, "I can't say I worked that close to him, but before his lie was discovered he was well liked and respected amongst the troops."

Folding his arms, he thought about the Warden Blackwall and about Tom Rainer; the man who wore the original Blackwall's face. Despite the lie, he'd acted as anyone would expect a Warden Constable to act – firm but fair, solid and powerful, a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield and a man who could easily conscript others at will. The few Wardens stationed with them seemed impressed by him, but rarely spoke with him.

Before the lie, he was respected and was an excellent asset to the Inquisition; he empowered the Wardens and even rallied others to their cause. On the Battlefield he was the wall between their enemies and the inner circle of the Inquisitor's closest, Sera and Varric in particular owed him their lives thanks to his talent with a tower shield.

"The things he did before he took on the name Blackwall are unacceptable, and personally I would not feel comfortable working closely with a man I knew could not be trusted to choose the cause over coin. However, one cannot ignore the fact that he joined the Inquisition after years as fighting as a Warden, then fought for us, and when the time came for him to save one of the men he betrayed he owned up to his lie, even knowing the consequences."

"That being said," he continued, "his lie had no consequence on his ability to fight, and his actions speak _something_ of a man trying to atone. I don't know if you made the right decision, but you could have made worse ones."

A grin spread slowly across the Warden Commander's face as she shook her head disbelievingly, and Cullen's brow furrowed; "What are you smiling about?"

"Nothing," she said, laughing, "that was just... you said exactly what I was thinking,"

Cullen's heart rolled as she continued to laugh and smile at him in that open, honest way. While she left to get another two pots of tea, he stared bemusedly down at his desk and contemplated what had just happened.

Constance was an excellent Commander, it showed in the way she wielded her authority with fairness and intelligent strategy; he was impressed with her skill and on some level even a little envious of her experience, and to hear her admit that they were both on the same or similar level _mentally_ was a big compliment.

And he supposed – now that they have grown close over letters and since her arrival at Skyhold, that knowing they shared the same moral integrity boosted his confidence about her as his partner as well as his co-worker – foreign as the concept felt to him.

It meant they were compatible on that level that went deeper than mere attraction.

But then there was all that... stuff about the Wardens, so much _stuff_ he wasn't sure of. Uptight and controlling as Sera liked to joke he was, he had to admit there was some part of him that itched to know more information relevant to the Warden's movements, not just because it coincided with the Inquisition's troops, but because he didn't like being left out of loops that he could potentially have a say in.

Warden related matters continued to be a blind spot and he didn't like the idea of being blind-sided by something that could be important... especially when it came to Constance's health and well-being. But it wasn't something he could outright ask her.

Though the curious part of him itched to know more about the Wardens as an operation, he cringed at the idea of asking her about the more _personal_ nature of her role. Had anyone asked him how it felt to come off Lyrium, he would have cut the conversation short. It was not a pleasant topic, and he was sure the taint was no different.

Even though he felt it important to know, he couldn't just come out and ask her. How was he supposed to word it? When she returned with the tea in her hands, he found himself at a total loss. The Inquisitor told him about Alistair's smart-mouth non-answer to _What's it like, being a Warden?_ \- and wondered if he would even get a proper answer at all.

Then Cullen wondered if she would even wish to speak of it.

* * *

The moments of reprieve between working were getting longer and longer, and it wasn't lost on Cullen how things were growing calmer in the wake of Corypheus's defeat. In a rare although entirely deserved moment of relaxation between troop rotas and missives, he found himself out on the barracks, staring down into the courtyard as he watched Constance go through some movements with a handful of interested Mages.

They approached her in the early morning; she'd been training with them for hours since. Apparently Tanner had been bragging at his post in the Western Approach on how she trained him in Combative Magic and the few there who heard it returned to Skyhold with consideration for training.

Divested of her heavy coat and gloves, he leaned over the wall as he watched her in the training ring, dressed in her thick breeches and a simple linen shirt, tucked-in neatly at the waistline, exaggerating how large her boots were in comparison to the rest of her. She was circling with the Mage across from her, her mouth moving as she explained things he couldn't hear over the din of the busy courtyard.

She'd made them all put their staves aside for their training, but moved like she was holding one, spinning with wide stances without casting, and it reminded him of how they were trained as Templars – how the sword was just an extension of the arm, and how you should just as easily be able to take someone down even without your weapon.

It seemed she was adopting such techniques... interesting, for a Mage.

Dogmeat was leaning heavily against his leg, his tail wagging slowly in contentment as Cullen scratched behind the dog's ears. The dog had taken to following him around when Constance was busy; he wondered if it was at her request or if Dogmeat was just fond of him.

In the sunlight, her hair glittered as he watched her continue her practice session. The other Mages seemed quite engrossed in what she was teaching, and he couldn't help but draw certain parallels to the Circle. Since her arrival he'd thought on how she'd grown and matured, but none of it seemed really concrete until watching her train with the Mages, and it really cemented the reality of just how long the passage of time was between their meeting again.

Constance had been so quiet, so studious and calm in the Circle. Most Mages were expected to assist in the training of younger or greener apprentices and he'd noticed she was a little too soft in her approach with them, unsure of when and how to correct their mistakes. It seemed that time and experience granted her the confidence and patience she lacked in that regard, as he looked down at them beginning to follow her movements at her instruction.

He'd wondered what had really changed between them, how he could work alongside her and she could work with him, and the awkwardness of their proximity failed to hamper them. Essentially they were the same people, deep down somewhere; their morals and their base personalities hadn't changed to the point where the other was unrecognisable, but circumstances around them certainly had.

Had the Circle not fell, would he still be a Templar and she still be an Enchanter? Would they still be dancing around each other, trying to keep their feelings in and pretending the sight of each other didn't steal all of their attentions?

But the point was _that they weren't_, neither of them were under the rule of the Chantry any more and were absolutely free to pursue each other, and as Cullen looked down at her he felt a massive range of options beginning to open up for him, and the tentative idea that he could pick from any one of them if he wished.

It was so difficult to believe it...

Constance spun, stance wide to show how it could avoid being knocked over, and as she slowly taught the others he couldn't help but think how it looked like a dance, in her fluidity. Years of battle, and she still found revelry in something so simple.

Years of battling Darkspawn... _Maker_. Though he supposed, years of battle, travel and study and she was no longer the shy, quiet Mage who studied for hours on end in the Library anymore. Now she was a Commander, an Arl, training Mages for the Inquisition and had become so confident and sure that she had kissed him when his own confidence had failed him, and he couldn't help but think on how, if they were still in the Circle, there was no way either of them would have had the courage. That the thought of her kissing him in such a way wouldn't have driven him completely mad.

The Chantry did that to their Mages and Templars. Romantic and _forbidden_ as the idea was, it was more often than not that they found each other attractive, but couldn't be seen to. Were _forbidden_ to find that spark in each other. That incredible _heat_.

Cullen shifted uncomfortably in remembrance, his skin growing hot, then even hotter as he considered how open he was to more and how easy and _permitted_ it would be. He took his hand away from the half-hearted attention he was giving to Dogmeat's ears and braced himself against the wall. _Maker_ but he wanted more...

"Your attention is rapt, I see," an approaching voice said, and Cullen nearly leapt out of his skin. The passing guards and runners paid him no mind, but he'd never expected someone to address him when he was in the middle of _picturing_-

The Warden Nathaniel assumed a similar position beside him, folding his arms against the wall and leaning over, a sly smirk quirking his handsome features in amusement, "You're looking rather enthralled there, Commander," he said, "has something in the courtyard caught your eye?"

His face burned, caught in the act; he found himself smiling sheepishly and shaking is head, saying; "There is no use denying it. I suppose it is common knowledge now,"

If kissing her in the courtyard upon her arrival didn't get them speaking and confirming their relationship, then he was working with _fools_. Nathaniel didn't outright berate him, he just snorted and followed his gaze until it landed on the Commander in the training ring, who was hanging back along the fence as she watched the Mages there practice what she was teaching them.

From what he knew of Nathaniel, he was a son of Rendon Howe, who was an avid supporter and right-hand-man of Teryn Loghain before the Hero of Ferelden killed him in order to save the Queen, and from what he knew of Rendon Howe were mixed reports of sadism and underground torture chambers. Nathaniel however, seemed quite affable, and was staunchly proud of being a Warden under Constance's command, a stance which made him raise a brow but accept the story regardless... everyone had family they weren't proud of.

The man was nice enough; professional, a little closed but easy-going, and Cullen found him less intimidating than admittedly he felt about Warden Alistair, even though Alistair was the easiest of them all.

It meant that he hadn't really given it a second thought when it occurred to him that he could ask Nathaniel about the more personal effects of being a Warden, and potentially receive an unbiased opinion. Sigrun, Velanna, Alistair and Oghren were all en-route to the Storm Coast to investigate Darkspawn activity in the area; he'd frustratedly received a non-answer about sending troops to aid them should they find themselves in a compromising situation, nevertheless the were not available to answer his tentative questions, and he wasn't even sure if he could trust any of them enough to give him a good report.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" He asked, reaching down again to scratch Dogmeat's ears for a bit of confidence.

The Howe inclined his head, "If you wish,"

"It is regarding the more... personal nature of being a Warden, if you don't mind."

Nathaniel's black brows rose, "Thinking of joining the Wardens, Commander?"

Cullen would have snorted had he not felt rather... intrigued by the concept. He wondered why he simply shrugged as his mind turned over the though for a moment; _joining the Wardens_. Preposterous... but, not entirely impossible. Warden's were known for their commitment and exceptional ability, their dedication and loyalty to their cause. It was an honour to join them, and although he shuddered at the idea of having to fight such horrific beasts like Darkspawn, he wasn't against joining such a cause.

Then again, was he really willing to risk trading one Order for another? Now that he was free of the Chantry, was he really ready to dedicate himself to another cause?

A passing thought, fleeting and foolish, and Cullen assured himself that his loyalty lay with the Inquisition for as long as they needed him.

He found himself shaking his head, rubbing the back of his neck, "I simply ask if... well, there is any suffering I am unaware of. I know precious little of it, and I could ease it for her in any way, I would,"

"That is understandable, I suppose," Nathaniel hummed in agreement, "_hmmm... suffering_... other than the nightmares about tunnelling Darkspawn? I can't say there is much,"

He watched the question turn over in Nathaniel's narrow blue eyes, his shoulders coming up into a shrug as he continued; "As far as I am aware, there are a number of differences in the side-effects, some of them good and some of them bad, so would you like me to tell you the frequent ones?"

The thought of being able to help her in some way pleased him, and he didn't feel all too comfortable asking her outright if she suffered because he got the idea that she would not tell him if she did, so he nodded eagerly, "If you wouldn't mind. I can't say it is a pleasant topic,"

Resting his hands against the stone, the wind picked up a few black tendrils of the man's hair in the breeze as he looked down at his Commander, "Really, the worst of it is the nightmares," he said, "but there are some other side-effects as well. For the first few months after Joining, most of us become ravenous for food. Alistair in particular _still_ eats like he's wasting away... although I can't say if that's an effect of being a Warden or, well..."

Cullen would have said how they have had to increase their stocks by an exponential amount since allying with the Wardens but decided against it as the man continued;

"Some like Oghren and myself develop an increase in resilience to alcohol, although I can tell you that you don't have to worry about Commander Constance in that regard; she's a lightweight compared to Oghren."

The easy smile on Nathaniel's face slid away a few moments after and he turned to regard Cullen seriously, "There is something you should know about the Grey Wardens, in regards to your relationship with our Commander," he said, dropping his voice slightly, "I... am not sure if you are aware, but it will probably be impossible for her to bear children. The taint severely decreases that chance,"

His hand had stilled on Dogmeat's head, who whined in response. He had no idea... from everything he heard about the Wardens it never came up in conversation.

"I... didn't know," he eventually said, resting the hand previously scratching the dog's ears on the pommel of his sword, "I'm sorry,"

Nathaniel shrugged, "It doesn't bother many of us, and there are benefits to that fact, after all, but... to have that option removed for some can be upsetting. If that does upset the Commander, I don't honestly know,"

"I see. Thank you for telling me,"

A deep stillness routed in him, pulling the bottom of his stomach downward. He didn't know if that fact bothered Constance or not, he didn't even know if she wanted children – it would be prudent to point out that Cullen had not even considered that any such children she would have could be his – or if she thought about having some sort of family, but it was sad to think that someone so gentle and kind couldn't conceive.

"Regarding that," Nathaniel continued, edging slightly closer and folding his arms, taking on a hushed tone that instinctively made Cullen lean in, "there is probably something else you should know,"

_Regarding... what?_ "Alright, what is it?"

"Well... from what I've heard when speaking to other Wardens, and indeed from my own experience we have increased stamina and endurance in battle and travelling, and that stamina translates to... _other areas_, as well," the man's face reddened as he stumbled over his words and he looked away, "I am only telling you this so you are aware of what entering into a relationship with a Warden entails..."

It took a few moments before it eventually dawned on him to what Nathaniel was referring to, and Cullen's face dropped. "Oh... _Maker's Breath,_"

Even though her image, her kiss and even her proximity to him rattled the chains of his carefully controlled lust, even though he pined for a more physical nature to their tentative relationship, Cullen had never really seriously considered the prospect of sex with Constance Amell. It seemed more like a passing fancy than a real, serious thought until faced with another referencing it as though it were fact-

As though they would be sharing a bed at some point-

And his heart hammered in his ribs at the notion of it, now that the prospect was not just in his head, but in the minds of others as well.

_Did that mean it was in hers...?_

Nathaniel held up his hands, "I can attest that that part, at least," he said, smirking, "and from what I've heard it's not just the men, either."

_Stamina and endurance_... the thought of making love to her, for endless _hours_ brought a high blush to his face as he waved the smirking Howe off, telling him he didn't want to hear any more and being horrified at his own lie.

Maker but he didn't need to know anymore, because there were enough indecent images of her floating around in his head that didn't include what kind of energy she would have in the bedroom. How was he going to keep up with her? Sex was... a foreign concept to him, another one of those things that happened to other people and never really happened to him.

He'd had the opportunity multiple times, but he couldn't just jump into bed with anyone and he'd admit he wasn't exactly in the best frame of mind before Kirkwall's fall, did he even have the kind of stamina Nathaniel was referring to?

Cullen wanted to think that he would be enough for her, and if he was honest he was certainly interested to test the theory that Nathaniel suggested, but the very idea of her like that, naked, under him, of their having sex - it was enough to have him thrilling and blushing and finding little else to occupy his thoughts. _Would she...?_

_Why wouldn't she?_

From the courtyard, one of the Mages pointed up to his position on the barracks and he nearly fell over himself as she looked up, waving as he stared down. Cullen waved back, embarrassed, as if she knew what he was thinking, _honestly_.

Wasn't it only going to be a matter of time? Wasn't that how most relationships progressed? Was it something she even wanted? A little breathless at the notion, he watched as she instructed the Mages for a moment more, and then began to make her way towards the steps across from the training ring, as though heading up to him.

He supposed he could continue to see where their shy, gentle pursuit of each other was heading, but he knew deep down that he couldn't sit idly by for long and allow it to unfurl without risking it becoming stagnant, and as he caught a glimpse of her sweet smile as she brushed her hair back from her face, Cullen wondered where exactly it _was_ heading. Wondered what exactly she _did_ think of him, now that they were becoming so close.

And the guilt slammed into his gut. How was he going to be able to pursue her when he couldn't even ask her how her being a Warden affected her, and by proxy, how it would affect _them?_ He'd gone behind her back and gossiped about her fertility and sexual prowess to another man without even considering... _Maker_, what a stupid, stupid thing to do.

It was only when she was a bare few steps away, did he realize how his thoughts had become rather troubled and questioning, how his muscles had begun to burn, and he realized with a sinking dread that his withdrawals were starting to rear their ugly heads yet again.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Notes:** I have grave news! I will be away on holiday for just over a week, so I am afraid there will be no update, I repeat, NO UPDATE until next Sunday.

I will be resting quite comfortably with my time off. Oh, the humanity.

I also have a call to arms. I am writing a NSFW PWP of Cullen/Iron Bull and I'm looking to commission some BDSM related cover art. The cover art will NOT be that NSFW and will only feature Cullen (I have a pretty good idea of what I want). I am unsure of who to really approach about it, so if you know anyone just drop me a message or whatever. I PAY CASH MONEY.

Be warned, this chapter is quite NSFW about half-way through.

* * *

Ever since Cassandra sent the Inquisitor to speak with him during that bad episode of his withdrawal symptoms, Cullen's experience with his addiction hadn't gotten much worse, admittedly.

In working for the Inquisition, he'd certainly seen an incredible improvement in his general health and well-being where his addiction was concerned, a fact that was amplified by the continued support of the Inquisitor and Cassandra, and to a degree by Leliana and Josephine. He was a damn sight better than how he'd felt for those first nightmarish few weeks coming off the draught; he remembered the weakness in his limbs, the uncontrollable shaking, the vomiting, the way he would walk into rooms and forget where he was in a blind panic.

That wasn't to say they still weren't occasionally bad, just that they were more manageable. With Constance Amell standing across from him in the office, he was willing himself to cope, even though his head pounded and his knees shook, because all he'd done _was_ manage.

The worst part of it was possibly the incredible craving for Lyrium, and he supposed that would never really go away. In the Circle, preparing the draught was part of his routine and it felt strange most of the time to climb out of bed and not have to attend to it. Often, his hands and his teeth would itch at the thought of it, bereft of the action and how it would feel to prepare and then drink it. It left a dull, hollow feeling of emptiness in the pit of his stomach that carried on through much of the day.

It was almost _ritualistic_, and there were many times that he felt incomplete without it.

Even more frightening, he was getting the sneaking suspicion that she was aware of how he was feeling; the way her eyes would rove over him critically, how her pretty mouth would twist in concern, she watched his every move like a hawk and as the day wore on it was beginning to grate on him. The last thing he wanted was to have her worrying for him.

He didn't even see her leave when he was addressing two of his Captains reporting on the current state of casualties around Emprise du Lion. He didn't see her grab the jar of tea down from his bookcase and he certainly didn't see when she added it to the pot of hot water she fetched from the kitchens, so when she pressed the steaming cup into his hands he looked at her with surprise, the smell of herbs and flowers wafting up into his face from the cup.

"You should rest," she said, her eyes full of concern, "you look exhausted."

Over the course of his time as Commander, he'd never been given the option of resting in the middle of working, and even if he did he wasn't sure if he'd take it. He was tired, his head ached and filled his ears with cotton, slowed his speech, his limbs burned and stung like he'd been training, but he was quite used to working through it without a rest, and he had so much to do, after all.

He gave her a lopsided smile, tried to push the cup back into her hands; "I'm alright," he insisted, but began to notice how his voice was slurred, almost like he was drunk, "I've a lot to do,"

"All the more reason for you to get some sleep. I can take over your duties here until you return. I can't guarantee everything will be done, but I would rather see you recover to tackle the work than stand here suffering,"

Cullen snorted, "I don't look that bad, do I?"

When she grimaced, he felt his heart sink. If his troops noticed his condition, none of them ever said anything. He was under the impression that he was keeping it together, the idea that perhaps he really wasn't was daunting and more than a little disheartening – if she noticed, perhaps they did as well. What they must think of him...

Her eyes were deep, deep and _warm_, and as he started to consider the thoughts of resting he found the idea to be all the more appealing, especially knowing that the tea would help him sleep that much better, and when he woke he wouldn't be in pain. A sweet warmth flooded his chest when her hand closed over his around the cup, a reassurance of a kind, and he found he trusted her opinion more than he thought he would.

Constance wasn't embarrassed by him, or pitying him either. She cared, she wanted to see him get better and was willing to shoulder that burden of his station for him. He would be a fool to refuse even if it stung his pride, and as his legs wobbled and his vision blackened for a brief moment when the pain behind his eyes lit up, the temptation to take up her offer was too much.

"Alright," he breathed, gripping her hand, noticing how close she was to him in that moment, "I will rest. For a time,"

She smiled, a sweet and soft kindness and slowly leaned up to plant a kiss on his cheek. He found his eyes had slipped shut at the simple gesture, the trust her felt so implacably for her taking over until it was all he could feel, drowning out the guilt.

"Do not worry. I will handle things here. You just get the rest you need," she soothed while he sipped the scalding hot tea, burning his mouth.

Cullen made his way up to his bed after that, stripping off his armour with slow, heavy hands as the tea started to work it's effects on his body. First came the thickness of movement, then the slow, hazy descent of mist over his eyes. He'd only barely managed to down the rest of it in a scalding gulp, strip off his furs and pauldrons and breastplate before he'd fallen face-first into bed, the soft, goosedown coverlet providing an excellent pillow for his entire body.

He slept. Cullen slept like a man who hadn't known sleep in years. Before his head had even hit the pillow, he was completely gone, and it wasn't surprising considering the effect the tea usually had on his body, and considering that he drank the whole cup at once instead of slowly sipping it over the course of an hour. The fatigue hit him hard and fast, and everything was blearily fading to black as he sank deep into the mattress and covers beneath him.

If he dreamed, he didn't remember dreaming. The strange effect of the tea meant he could feel the passage of time, almost like he was awake, but couldn't see, hear or register what was going on around him. All he could feel was the warm press of the mattress and the disconnected quiet in his mind.

Being so out-of-body would have been terrifying if it hadn't felt like such relief from the pain and the cravings, so Cullen welcomed it. Usually he waited until the evenings to take it if he was having a particularly bad day and even then he tried not to, in case he received an emergency report – but knowing Constance was there in his stead made the decision that much easier, and he revelled in the idea of taking that short break, just for himself.

With Corypheus's defeat and the woman of his dreams finally in his presence, he allowed himself to relax, even just for a short time.

…. There was a hand in his hair, soothing along his scalp. Had it not relaxed him to the point where he felt his bones melting into the bed, he would have jerked awake when he realized that _there was a hand in his hair_. By foggy, half-hearted process of elimination, he deduced it could only be a certain number of people, and the most obvious one was probably either Constance, or less likely but still totally plausible, Cassandra, whom had taken care of him when he was at his worst.

It seemed a monumental effort to crack an eye open. With his face buried in the pillow and his nose squashed into the feathery fabric, he could blearily make out the shape of the woman - _of Constance_ \- sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, her legs crossed, hand nonchalantly running through his hair as she read over a letter in her lap. She sat on the very edge of the mattress, and he realized with disdain that when he fell asleep he'd literally fallen; one arm was supporting his head under the pillow, the other was tucked beneath his body and tingling from lack of blood, his legs were sprawled , one hanging over the edge with the tip of his boot touching the ground.

The room was quiet, lit with candles, and he vaguely wondered how long the tea had put him out if it was dark already. He'd only taken the tea mid-afternoon, sundown usually wasn't until late evening... _how long...?_

Cullen spent a moment assessing and reassessing his condition; though his left arm was numb from where his torso was squashing it, his arms didn't feel dull or heavy, and his headache was virtually gone. That dizzy, slow feeling was still there, but with every passing second the fog gradually lifted from his mind, and he breathed a long, deep breath of relief through his nose as he let his body sink further into the mattress.

How long had it been since he truly rested? Between Kirkwall and working for the Inquisition, it felt like years. He supposed the nightmares didn't help and neither did the withdrawal symptoms, so he allowed himself the incredibly rare feeling of utter bonelessness for a few more moments, and sighed as he felt Constance's hand rake over a particularly sensitive spot on his crown.

She performed the action with a sort of detached casualness that made him feel a little lucky, after all, it wasn't as though he would allow anyone to get so close to him as she was now, and the fact that she wasn't even thinking about it, brushing his hair with her fingers as though they had been lovers for years made his heart skip a few beats at the natural intimacy. In the candlelight, her hair shined and glimmered as the lights flickered with the gentle breeze that came in through the roof. Most of her attention was focused on the letter perched on her knee; he studied the side-profile that was offered to him with a lack of his usual restraint - she probably thought he was still asleep - and couldn't help but, _well... fawn_ over how beautiful he found her.

He watched her read the letter with those blue eyes, watched the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed in the silence, the flutter of long, silvery lashes as she blinked, and couldn't help but think how he would have given anything to be as close to her as he was now when he was in the Tower. She'd matured, certainly, and a small part of him was a little afraid that the Ferelden Civil War and the Darkspawn would have made her hard and sharp before he saw her again, but that obviously wasn't the case.

Divested of her elbow-length leather gloves, she raised her other hand to her mouth and chewed on her exposed thumbnail for a moment with her front teeth, pulling the pink fleshiness of her lower lip down as she let her hand fall to pick up the page to bring it closer to her face. Her hand stilled in his hair, and he winced at the pathetic sounding groan that escaped him.

He had been enjoying her hand on his scalp more than he would ever admit.

He flushed as her eyes turned to him, her mouth slid into an easy smile, "You're awake," she breathed, taking her hand away from him completely to join the other in folding the letter, "how are you feeling?"

"Better," he croaked in reply, clearing his throat and untangling his arm from underneath himself, "much better, considering I'm waking up to you,"

She laughed, her cheeks turning pink. He'd never woken up to a beautiful woman in his bed before, even if circumstances dictated that she wasn't exactly _in_ his bed, but he wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to mention it even to just make light of what could potentially be an awkward situation.

"Your sleep seemed troubled," she said, looking at him with those warm eyes, "you weren't moving, but you were muttering a lot. I tried to wake you, but you were sleeping too deeply. Toying with your hair seemed to calm you so I took some work up here. I... hope you don't mind,"

"Not at all. How long ago was that?"

Constance shrugged, "Not long. Half an hour, at the most,"

"How long have I been asleep?"

"I would say seven, perhaps eight hours,"

"_Maker_,"

"You seemed like you needed it,"

"I must have," he agreed, astonished. He hadn't slept a full seven hours since serving as a Templar in the Ferelden Circle, and even then he'd been a light sleeper. His mother used to say it was because he was a worrier; if he wasn't biting his fingernails down to the bone he was tossing and turning until his brother got so annoyed he'd either kick him out of the bed or go and sleep with their parents. Habits he'd thankfully left behind once he'd become more disciplined as a Templar, but he never could rest for long.

Despite that, he still felt like pulling the blankets up over his head and curling back into sleep like it was no one's business, and at the same time he wanted to get up and use his well-rested form to get more work done. Constance watched him carefully as he turned over and sat up, smoothing his dishevelled hair back behind his ears and sighing deeply.

She smirked at his tousled appearance, reaching forward to sarcastically adjust the ties on the collar of his shirt as if that would somehow let him regain his dignity. He playfully pushed her hands away and told her she needed bother, he'd since left his dignity with his armour haphazardly thrown on the floor.

"I hope there wasn't too much work for you," he said, squeezing the bridge of his nose as he thought about his duties.

"I wasn't able for all of it, I'll admit," she said, looking away, "I did what I could. How do you ever manage such a workload?"

He chuckled lowly under his breath, "I get by," he said, pointedly looking to the neatly folded letter in her hands, "... is that for me?"

"This?" She held it up, then shook her head, frowning, "No, this is a letter from Weisshaupt."

Constance looked troubled, her brows drawn tightly. She chewed on her lower lip and turned the letter over in her hands.

"Is everything alright?" He asked.

"Fine," she assured, but he didn't believe her, "nothing to concern yourself with,"

She jumped when he took a hold of her wrist, pulling it towards him which drew her gaze up from the parchment in her hands to the concern in his eyes, "You can tell me," he said, hating the secrecy between them, especially where the Wardens were concerned. He wasn't as experienced as she was, obviously, but sometimes a fresh pair of eyes on a problem was just the solution and he didn't like the look on her face, he wanted to understand it a little better.

She sighed, grasping his hand in reassurance, "It's just..." she trailed off, but then something solidified in her expression as she met his gaze evenly, "it is surprising, that is all. They do not appear to be in favour of this alliance. Alistair wasn't joking when he said there is a lot of in-fighting between the upper echelons of the Warden hierarchy. They can't seem to agree on their official stance, and it leaves a lot of us in limbo,"

With what seemed like a rare moment of Constance losing her patience, she threw her hands up into the air as if praying, but kept the even tone to her voice, "We need their guidance now more than ever, especially with the circumstances surrounding Adamant. I am... _worried_. I wish there was something I could _do_, I cannot stand feeling so powerless, but there seems to be no way to reason with them,"

A little speechless, he watched as her shoulders sagged and wondered how many people saw _this_ side of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, the one who worried about her duties and the effect of her superiors on her soldiers. A silence stretched between them and he found himself scratching the back of his neck, not so worried about thinking of something to say, just about sounding like a fool. He'd been in command of the Templars of Kirkwall for long enough before the Inquisition, but she had dragged the Ferelden Wardens up from the brink of annihilation and had titles longer than he even cared to say at once.

And just like in the Circle, she had more power in her little finger than he did in his whole body.

But what use was his silence to her?

"Perhaps Josephine could assist you?" He posed, and instantly regretted it, pinching himself on the back of his neck as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

"Josephine...?" She twisted slightly at the waist to face him properly, "I do not think an ambassador from an Orlesian branch of what was once the Chantry could help-"

"Not as an ambassador," he corrected quickly, regaining some of his confidence, "as an _advisor_. Josephine has an excellent way of wording letters to attain what she wants. If you were to ask for her help on the matter, I am sure she could aid you in some fashion,"

Constance seemed to consider the option, her eyes dark and unreadable as they focused and re-focused, weighing up choices in a way that he found refreshingly alike to himself.

She held her chin in that same manner he noticed many Senior Enchanters from the Circle did, "Hmm... perhaps I will ask her. She certainly has a way with words... and I find I am a little too angry with them, at present,"

"That is what she's there for, do not be afraid to lean on her, or me, if you have need of me," he said, being careful not to kick her as he swung his legs over the edge of his bed so he was sitting next to her, their upper-arms pressing together.

"I have leaned on you enough," she said quietly.

"Constance, we are allies," he said, and she turned her head up to face him, he could feel the heat of her breath on his collar, "and I do not mean in just those terms. If you need to speak to someone, you have only to ask,"

And he meant it. Without her offer to take over his duties for that short time, he probably would have stayed behind his desk and suffered in silence for the remainder of the day – a situation he was quite used to but merely being offered the _option_ to rest made him feel more relaxed than he had felt in years, and knowing she had his back and could support him...

He wanted her to feel something similar, even if it was only in some small way, even if she only felt it a token gesture, _he meant it_.

With a body that felt much better than how it did earlier in the day, Cullen pushed himself off his bed and tried to hide his embarrassingly dishevelled appearance with a suggestion, "I should try and work through the rest of the evening. Would you mind showing me what you missed?"

"Certainly. It's not much, I promise,"

They made their way down to his office in companionable silence. They spent some time addressing what was left for him over the course of the day, which in fact wasn't as much as he thought, and for once he actually considered the possibility of getting some rest before the night was over. Audacious as it felt, he found he quite liked the idea of continuing his sleep from earlier, even though in the back of his mind he knew it probably wasn't going to work out as he was picturing it.

They sorted through the messages for the next day and his heart sank a little when he noticed her rubbing her eyes. She'd been working from dawn, all so he could get some sleep. Well-deserved or not, there was always a price.

"I'll take care of the rest," he assured, "do not trouble yourself any further, not on my account,"

She shook her head, "It is no trouble, Cullen. You needed that sleep, I can see that. You look like you _still_ need it,"

Self-conscious, he smoothed his hair back with his hands, "Maker, I don't look that bad, do I?"

"Perhaps I should fetch you a mirror...?" she offered coyly, one silver brow raising.

"I would rather you _didn't_,"

She smirked, and suddenly he was very aware of her proximity to him, of the heat radiating from her, "I don't know, I think you look rather fetching. You have this... just-crawled-out-of-bed look about you. Your _hair -_"

Constance reached up to brush some wayward hair that had fallen over his temple back, and her hand lingered just that little too long, their torsos came into contact just that little too intimately to be a mere graze. He found his hand had come up to support her elbow with the tips of his fingers, and he was all too aware of how her eyes met with his, how her mouth had parted ever so slightly. The time between them stood still, and his pulse pounded in his throat for that brief moment.

_Maker but she is so beautiful... _

The descent of her hand from his face was slow, lingering about his shoulder as her eyes darted this way and that, seemingly losing her nerve, "... I... I-I had always thought so," she said, and they continued to stand there like there was both an ocean and a hair's breadth between them.

"You had always thought what?" He asked, and he could see how his breath ghosting across her face made her lips twitch.

"Hmm?" Her attention had been pulled from the strings of his collared shirt, back to his eyes, and that was where he needed them.

"You said you 'had always thought so'. What had you always thought?"

A pretty flush filled her face from her ears around to the round slope of her cheekbones, he could see her swallow reflexively as she did that thing again where she weighed up her options in her head, her eyes becoming glassy and far-away.

"I had always thought you were- _are -_ th-that you _are_ attractive," she eventually admitted, and his breath had escaped him in a shuddering rush.

In the quiet of the evening, he became aware of many things. He was aware of how, after days, months, possibly even years of suffering that he hadn't felt so good or so well rested in so long, and how his body hummed in want for _something_ from her now that she was standing so close to him, radiating all that heat that had him idly licking his lower lip, wondering how warm her skin would feel against his mouth. Thoughts like that became long, unfurling unencumbered in his mind as he thought of the many possibilities. Of his current health and mood. Of how they were completely alone. Of the way she eyed the exposed skin beneath the folds of his collar. Of the heat travelling between them.

And he wanted..._ Maker, but he wanted... _

It was different, different somehow than their kiss in the courtyard and different from her gentle attentions in his office, but he couldn't quite put his finger on how. Perhaps because she was faltering and unsure, or because she was admitting something she perhaps had wanted to say to his face but couldn't quite get the words out. Nevertheless, he felt his nerves race and his face heat at her admission, and a startling, almost _hungry_ curiosity to know more.

He'd never been very good at accepting compliments, but from _her_...

"In the Circle, you mean?" He asked, though it was barely a whisper.

"Ah... y-yes, that is what I meant,"

"And what _did_ you think? In the Circle, about _me_,"

Her gaze had become transfixed on the movements of his mouth, and then the answer to his question he found didn't really matter – pointless filler in between getting closer. He tried to bridge the short gap in between them with his body, but she stepped back, her hands coming up to rest shakily on his shoulders. As he moved forwards and realized she moved with him, his hands gently encircled her waist to try and draw her closer, the thick hide of her coat rough against the pads of his palms.

They walked back, _and back_, and somehow kept getting just that little bit closer but something was different, something was _dangerous_ \- a question, perhaps...

"I looked on you a lot," she said, stumbling slightly but his hands were holding her upright, tightening to keep her balanced, "I thought you were... q-quite dashing, very _imposing_..."

As she struggled to keep up whatever air of decency that was crumbling beneath them, they were approaching what he could see in his periphery was the door, and if she continued to move away soon there would be no where else to go but into him, and either outcome seemed rather enticing to him then.

"What else?" He breathed, his eyes focusing on how soft and pink her lips looked, on how her eyes were hooded and lazy, _because of him_, and how he wanted nothing more than to kiss her, _deeply_, so badly he could think of nothing else.

Her back met the door and she arched forward in surprise, gasping, pressing them flush together-

"Cullen, I..." she started breathlessly, and he found he was a little breathless too, his chest expanding to try and accommodate how terrifyingly great his need was to just kiss her, get inside her _somehow_, as he leaned down and angled his head to just about feel her lips brush as she said - "I thought a great many things about you while I was in the Tower-"

But if she was going to say anything more, he couldn't stand to listen to her any longer. Her voice was all rich and thick like syrup, breathy as her hands tightened in his shirt at his shoulders, and he pressed himself against her as he roughly brought their mouths together, the back of her head pinned against the door.

The kiss was fierce, and hot, the subtle smell of her invading his senses until he was surrounded by it. He could hear her breath coming in harsh drags through her nose. His pulse, rapid and pounding, was so strong he could hear it in his ears and it only got stronger when her free hands roving over his shoulders curled in the fabric of his shirt and _pulled_ so he was practically all over her.

He'd never done anything like it, and he supposed that was his reasoning for his intensity because when he did try something, it was never by halves. Cullen kissed her like he wanted her to know how strongly he felt for her, for countless years and even more as she fell back into his life, and as he licked his way past her lips and delved into her mouth with his tongue, he did it with a fervour that spoke of a man starved for her.

She moaned, and the sound made his stomach roll in excitement. His hands grasped her waist and ribs so their chests were squashed together, but somehow that contact wasn't enough-

It felt like it would _never_ be enough.

Even the feeling of having his tongue in her mouth – in _Constance's Amell's_ mouth – wasn't enough.

Her mouth moved with his, her fingers tightened and twisted in his shirt at the collar, she angled her head so slightly that she could better tilt up to him and as their tongues wrapped around each other he couldn't help but think of the exciting confirmation that _she wanted this too_, that she wanted _him_, and the very thought of it had him hard and ready to take her.

With the sort of reckless abandon that was so unlike his usual calm, in control attitude, he broke away from her by the barest of an inch so he could reach down, hook his hands around the back of her thighs and hoist her up against the door. A frighteningly powerful thrill raced through him when she gasped in surprise and her legs parted obediently on either side of his waist, hands trying to hold herself up by grasping to his shirt. Now that he had better access to her mouth that he wasn't straining to bend nor was she on her toes, they resumed that hot, almost frantic kissing that had him breathing so harshly before the bare second of a break.

He could feel the heat of her body through the thin linen of his breeches, hips pressed so _intimately_ together that his cock started to ache. Still pressing her back against the door he adjusted her weight on him, hands supporting her by that incredible arse he spent so much time falling over himself about, and in the movement their hips ground together, making his eyes squeeze shut even tighter and a guttural moan come harshly out of his throat.

Worried he'd suddenly gone too far, he stopped, their noses and brows touching, looking down into her eyes so close to him as if to ask; _is this...?_ She weighed nothing to him at all, but the feeling of her in his arms, against him, against the door to his office, it all bore down on him that he felt like drowning.

Panting, her hands sliding from his shirt to the back of his neck, and pressed forward with a kiss that was as intense as it was soft, then again, and _again_, and her gasping little moan when he pressed against her hips with his again, so unguarded and deep, was probably the most arousing sound he'd ever heard.

It felt amazing, unlike anything he'd ever felt on his own, and it rooted deeply in him, left him so breathless he couldn't help but let his head drop to press his face against the juncture of her neck as he started to grind against her in earnest, moaning brokenly as the pleasure came in hard, shuddering waves.

His body was out of control, the intensity of it all was making a fine sheen of sweat start to break out on his skin, and the unbridled pleasure of being pressed up against the woman of his dreams had his hips moving without being able to stop.

She was breathing raggedly against his ear, placing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses against his jaw, his neck, the juncture of his shoulder; her hands escaped warmly down the back of his shirt and her nails dug lightly into his skin, and he heard himself make that pathetic sound again before he could stop. No one had ever touched him so intimately before – healers on the battlefield or the occasional Templar applying dressing to a wound, but never as something pleasurable, as something sexual, and his made his hips roll against her that much faster-

In hard, tight little circles, and he could feel her coming undone against him, her legs mincing against his waist as her calves flexed, fingers spasmodically clenching at the skin on his back and shoulders. From the smooth column of her arched throat he raised his head, kissing the underside of her jaw, spurred on by the way she tilted her head as if to ask for more so he peppered the exposed skin there as much as he could between his frayed breath, kissing her frantically, because he had no words for what he _wanted_.

If they kept going, he would come, there was no doubt about it. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, in the way his movement against her began to resemble the act it was so desperately referencing, and he wanted to, but he also wanted-

"_I... I w-want-_" he tried to breathe and choked. He couldn't take any more waiting or teasing, he needed to do this and it was the perfect time, perfect place, and he was in the best condition he'd felt in years. His bed was just up the ladder, no more waiting or dreaming or wishing, it was going to happen, and if it was any indication from what they were doing, it was going to feel _so good_.

And she'd never _looked_ so good. Her head tossed back as he felt her undulate, her mouth parted and red, a hot blush staining her otherwise pale nose and cheeks. She looked _incredible_, she looked thoroughly debauched, and _he_ was doing that to her. He'd never thought himself capable of reducing such a powerful woman to a moaning, panting mess in his arms and yet there she was, and he wanted her so _badly_ it was making him beg for it.

They kissed hard, one of her hands came up to cup his jaw, and as he gazed down into her sooty blue eyes he found himself needing to know, needing to ask, plead, even, "_I want..._" he panted, watching the way her mouth parted, thinking on how incredible she looked and how _good_ everything felt to him, about how he'd get her in his bed, naked, and have his way with her.

They exchanged the same look, the same reciprocating, inviting, warm and excited look, and she was urging him with those eyes to continue.

"I want-"

But he was cut off by a hard, harsh rapping against the far door, and they both jumped so badly he nearly unceremoniously flung her to the ground.

Hardly able to believe it, they both exchanged disbelieving glances, a disbelieving moment, and just as he was about to dismiss it as nothing, it happened again.

_Wham wham wham!_ "Er... apologies, Lady Commander!" Came a voice from the other side, "Emergency report from The Storm Coast!"

He watched as she looked to the door, then to him, her eyes wide like coins, and after a few seconds his excited heart sank deep into the pit of his stomach. He let out a long, exhausted sigh and let his head fall to her shoulder. _Of all the nights to get an emergency report, why now?! _

"I-I have to-" she started, unhooking her legs from his waist, and he was very reluctant to let her go but did regardless, holding his burning face in his hands as she near ran to the door to wrench it open just as another heavy-handed knock came down on the wood.

"Oh," the young scout quickly lowered his fist from where it was previously hammering the wood, "my apologies, Mi'Lady, I hope I'm not-"

Cullen leaned against the ladder with folded arms as the scout took in Constance's ruffled hair, possibly the red mark on her neck from where he'd been kissing her, the puffiness of her lips and cheeks, and then over to him and his obviously very dishevelled appearance and less-than-pleased expression, and the boy went bright red from his chest right up until it disappeared under his hood.

"... i-interrupting your evening,"

He couldn't see Constance's face, but he could hear the tightness in her voice as she said, "What is it?"

The scout was faltering, but he held out the scroll regardless, "Em-mergency report, Mi'Lady. From Warden Alistair. He told me not to wait, Mi'Lady, I'm sorry, I-"

"That's quite alright," she said, soothing, and it seemed to calm him almost instantly, although he was studiously avoiding Cullen's glower, "you were right to bring it straight here, thank you."

"And you. Goodnight, Mi'Lady,"

"And to you," she nodded, courtesied slightly, and carefully shut the door. With her hand still resting on the door behind her, she turned to him, sheepish, blushing fiercely once their eyes met, and looked like she wanted to say something but didn't have the words.

Constance held up the scroll as a sort of apology. He understood; it still kicked him right in the chest with disappointment, but he understood. The moment was gone.

He sighed, hanging his head, and before they could even say anything they both started laughing. First quietly, almost unsure, but then longer and louder as the situation started to sink in. She approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder, tears shining in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping them away, "I've been waiting on this report. I need to-"

"No, please," he took her hand, squeezing it, "I understand. It's fine."

They spent a moment gazing fondly at each other, knowing that there was no point in trying again, her attentions were diverted elsewhere and she was exhausted from working most of the day. Instead, they kissed lightly, in a reassuring manner that said what transpired between them was accepted, and would be returned to, but the kiss had none of the fire it had earlier.

She swept out of the room after biding him goodnight, after that. Cullen let out a long, exasperated sigh and wondered, how in all of Thedas, how he was ever going to sleep again without her warming his bed.

He kicked the ground with his still booted foot and grumbled, saying that he was going to kill that scout if he ever saw him again.

Put him on duty in the Western Approach. _Next to the mines_.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading. Shit, it got a bit hot and heavy towards the end, didn't it?! Don't forget, no update till next Sunday!


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Notes:** I have returned!

I also may or may not have cheekily bought myself two of the first Dragon Age novels BECAUSE I AM ABSOLUTELY NOT THAT MUCH OF A FAN oh my god I am so deep in this Dragon Age hell that I cannot see the exit any more.

* * *

After a night of tossing and turning restlessly, _aching_ at the thought of what had transpired between them, Cullen spent the rest of the day exhausted, although not entirely unhappy about it.

They both blushed fiercely when confronted with each other the next day and it carried well into the rest of the day with stuttered words, fumbling hands and shy, awkward stares.

It was somehow good to know that she too was blushing and stuttering like she didn't know what to do or say; a comfort in some way that let him know it wasn't just him, but he hoped she didn't regret what happened between them-

Because there was a part of him that really, _really_ did.

He'd first noticed the guilt and horror at his own actions when she called a meeting in the War Room early in the morning to explain the situation at the Storm Coast and the Darkspawn there. She'd told them of Oghren's sensitivity to the taint, of the suspected Broodmother, and that the surly dwarf was fairly certain there was a Broodmother in the caves underneath the Coast.

What she _didn't_ ask for was help. No, she asked that they take their men as far as possible from the openings she pointed at on the map; she would send Wardens to aid Alistair and the others there, and their men could get to safety.

Cullen offered to send men to the coast to secure the area; at that, the Warden Commander stood a little tighter, "Please do not take this the wrong way," she started, "but the danger is indicative of why I cannot accept any aid from the Inquisition."

They all seemed to bristle at that, especially he and the Inquisitor, who took it as a personal offence against their troops who won the siege at Adamant, and won the battle against the Red Templars in the Korcari Wilds. They were trained, professional, and who was she to say they weren't-

But as she launched into her reasoning why, Cullen could see why so many previously reluctant Fereldens now raised the Grey Warden banners in her honour.

"I do not doubt your forces, Inquisitor, but this is not a question of experience or hardiness. All Wardens are charged with the purpose of fighting back the Darkspawn and to expect the same from your men would not do. This is Wardens' work," she said, linking her arms behind her back and giving them all a level stare, "and I will not have any unnecessary bloodshed, especially not with something that my men can very much handle on their own. There are stories about the Grey Wardens of Old, about how they would stand between the Darkspawn and the armies of men, shielding the common folk until the last Darkspawn was slain. Sadly, _desperately sadly_, since the Grey Warden's political meddling at Soldier's Peak and Clarel's actions at Adamant, the people have lost their faith in us, but we will continue to stand against these threats with or without their trust. That is the Calling of the Order, and it is what I will stand by. So I am sorry, but I would rather your men get to safety than fight against something they do not need to."

He remembered when the Templar Order had morals. _Had standards._ Held themselves to a code of ethics that put the protection of the innocent above the pettiness and cruelty of politics. It used to be the Templars that people went to when they needed help, when they needed someone righteous or someone who would absolutely do the right thing above all else, who would fight for justice and the good of the people.

Cullen hadn't felt that flame sparked in a long time, not since his very early, very tentative first few years in Kirkwall where the Templars were called upon for everything until it was snuffed out with Meredith's deceit. When he'd received his first draught of Lyrium and his armour, and for all the time her served in Ferelden's Circle that flame danced in his heart, made him feel proud and strong until the Circle fell. Seeing Amell speak of the Wardens in such a way made him itch to unsheathe his sword and lay it at her feet, pledge himself to her cause because the Wardens were what the Templars tried so hard to be.

With Constance leading them, how could they falter? She was the woman who saved all of Ferelden and the surrounding lands from the Fifth Blight with nothing but one other Grey Warden and a Mabari. She put their Queen on the throne, she saved Arl Eamon's son with the blessed ashes of Andraste-

And the previous night he was going to _fuck_ her against the door like it meant nothing.

Like she wasn't arguably the most powerful, influential and decent woman in Thedas. He was ready to take her against that door and rut her like it was a quickie in a backwater tavern and the idea made him sick to his stomach. What was he _thinking_?!

They left the War Room after continuing on with the edicts for the day, he with his issues of new orders for his troops to move away (not _out_) from areas of known Darkspawn activity in the Storm Coast, and made their way back to their respective duties. Constance returned to her research, but he found himself lingering out in the courtyard, his head a mess of mangled thoughts and twisting guilt.

What she must think of him... he knew that she was embarrassed in the best possible sense, perhaps hopeful for something... _more_, but he wanted to give her more in a way that was worthy of her. And Cullen did _so_ not feel worthy of her, not after _that_. There was something to be said for the way the Chantry taught them to stamp down their lust and keep others pure; the desire was so strong, so very all-consuming it was a little terrifying to think of how it nearly made him have her right there, against the door. Had the scout not knocked...

Cullen probably would have given-in to it, and let it consume him so much that he wouldn't have spared a thought for her past his own pleasure. Maker, but she deserved more. She deserved something real and tangible and worthy.

But he was at odds on _how_, and before he even came to any sort of conclusion on what to do or even who to ask, he found himself standing in front of the armoury, worrying the leather on his gloves and staring blankly at the wooden door as though it would give him some answers. Whenever he was troubled or needed someone to speak plainly with him, Cassandra was there. The woman wasn't just his boss in a sense that she was a Seeker to his Templar status, but her recruitment of him put her on that pedestal above him even though there was no official status in the Inquisition for her.

When he was at his lowest, his most pained and terrified and deep in his withdrawals, she was there, and she was _honest_.

And, he admitted to himself with a frown, her relationship with the Inquisitor was something he both admired, and was envious of - of its openness, its easy calm.

"You want my advice...?" Cassandra eyed him suspiciously over the lip of the book in her hand, "... on what? Have you been... feeling _worse_ lately? You _seem_ better,"

"I can assure you, I'm feeling fine," he dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand, "I just wanted to ask for your opinion about something, that's all..."

He'd been in a sorry state when he first went to her to ask to be replaced. It was after he nearly ran through Cole with his sword, when he'd been so lost in his delusions that he couldn't separate fiction from reality and his paranoia amplified all of his negative emotions. She wasn't comforting, but then she wasn't harsh either, and he knew that deep down under all that armour and bluster and self-righteousness, she was just like him.

_A terrible romantic fool._

When he told her vaguely about how he was unsure of where to tread concerning Constance Amell, Cassandra looked at him with eyes that slightly widened, her mouth pulling into a smile that was partly disbelieving, partly humorous, "And what makes you think _I_ would know?"

_Because you're a woman. Because you know what it is like. Because I didn't trust Varric or Iron Bull or, Maker forbid, __**Dorian**__._ "... Because I trust in your judgement, and I respect your opinion."

The woman shut her book shut with a snap; judging by the cover it seemed she was still pouring over the Seeker's tome she received from Lord Seeker Lucius, and shifted on her wooden chair until her legs were to the side, "Maker, you really wish to know what _I_ think? Considering less than five or so years ago I would have been investigating the rumour that a Templar was courting a Mage, Warden or otherwise - I cannot say I completely agree."

Cassandra stood then, sighing, "But five years ago we still had Circles and a Chantry, and now you are no longer a Templar, nor am I a part of the Seekers, not any longer. Does that not trouble you?"

"Probably not as much as it should," he replied with a wry smile, "especially considering I've felt this way since before the Blight... perhaps it is best that you never needed to travel to the Ferelden Circle, lest you'd discover my infatuation."

The woman laughed, saying; "Perhaps you are right; the punishments for fraternization were quite severe. Were you two together before...?"

"No," he answered, "despite how I felt then, I never acted on it. I _did_ follow the Order's rules, you know,"

"I believe you. Still, not many people would be willing to love a Mage, especially not after the rebellion. I should hope, if you wish to court her, that there are reasons beyond your obvious attraction to her,"

_As Cullen watched Mage Amell march up the stone steps to the Harrowing Chamber, hands on fire with magical intent, and shoved open the door to free the litany of screaming, the strikes and pulls and rumbles of magic tearing at the Veil, he winced as the door slammed shut behind her._

_With his hands clasped tightly together in a prayer, he pressed his forehead against the plate of his crossed thumbs and listened as the sound gradually died down to silence, and waited._

_And then it began anew with a tower-shaking __**bang**__ that shook him to the core, so similar to the first that indicated the tower was in danger, then the swoops and pulls of magic being summoned, strikes as it danced off the walls of the chamber, yells that were not in anguish or terror but hatred and rage. His arms were shaking, his head was a mess from Lyrium withdrawal, and as he thought about her in there, battling that monster that was once a man, he held his prayer tighter to himself than he ever had_

_**Blessed are they who stand before**_

_**The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. **_

_**Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.**_

_**Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.**_

_**In their blood the Maker's will is written.**_

_She would fail. She would die, and then there would be nothing to stop Uldred from coming down from the chamber and finishing him off, from turning him into one of those things. Why would she? She was just one Mage, just one little girl against those things, and what good was that? How would she even hope to succeed where all the Templars and all the other Magi failed? No, she would either die trying or become an abomination just like them. Cullen repeated his prayer as the sounds from the chamber got louder and louder, building up and up like an orchestra coming to it's crescendo-_

_And then it all stopped. The sudden, jarring stop made him want to vomit. One of two things were going to happen, and he had not faith in him left to believe it was good._

_There was a crack - the sound like a glass being dropped or a mirror falling, and then another, and as he slowly gazed up from his hands, the edge of the plate on his thumb digging into the knot between his eyebrows, he could see the web of cracks starting to form in the glowing cage around him until they spread, and then it all collapsed._

_Scarcely able to believe it, wondering if perhaps it was just another trick, Cullen stood on wobbling legs, staring around to see the cage had completely broken away, the pieces of it evaporating out of existence._

_He was... he was __**free**__._

The memory, strangely, didn't feel as painful as it usually did. At the time he'd been too betrayed and angry and ruined to see anything past that, but he does remember the relief trying to break through then, when he realized that his cage as gone, and that meant Uldred was dead.

That Constance had saved him.

She was beautiful, of course, and he found himself more than attracted to her natural, effortless beauty in the softness of her hair and the pink fleshiness of her lips and those _hauntingly_ intelligent eyes, but there was so much more to her than those things. He was alive, whole and sane because of her.

Despite all the awful things he said to her before she defeated Uldred, she wrote to him like they only spoke days ago, let alone a gap of a decade.

She sent him tea to help him when he mentioned he was off Lyrium, even though he never expressed his suffering.

She forgave him when he wrote his apology, and never made it sound trivial.

And now she would gaze at him the same way he would gaze at her in the Tower; longingly, affectionately, and the reciprocation fulfilled something deep in him that made him feel whole again, even after years of suffering and hardship. What kind of man would he have been without writing all that to her? What would his life be like without it?

The same, but somehow not _whole_.

The feeling was foreign – he was so used to not letting himself hope – but the thought of being without it left him feeling hollow and incomplete, and it was frightening, exciting and strange because even though she'd only been at Skyhold for a bare few weeks he already felt like he... like he...

That he was...

"I wouldn't be here without her," he said, though it was barely a whisper as his eyes grew wide in realization, "I owe her my life. Of course she means more to me than just..." _than just a quick fuck against my office door._

_No_. Maker he had to make it right.

Cassandra leaned against the window-frame, gazing fondly out into the courtyard; "We are too alike," she said, smiling, "I fell in love with a Mage once, too. _Regalyan_. He died at the Conclave,"

"I wasn't aware. I'm sorry,"

"Don't be," she shrugged, looking back at him, "we have defeated the man responsible for his death, and the death of the Divine. That is more justice than I could have hoped for."

And, he supposed, Cassandra's life continued even after the death of her former lover, and as she sustained her stare out the window, the high sun filtering down through the glass onto the sharp lines of her face, he could see she looked all the better for it. There was no question that if she remained at Regalyan's side she would likely be dead too, and yet she lives and has found someone else to place her trust and faith in.

He'd never found Cassandra particularly attractive, possibly because of her higher rank and position above him. But as he watched her contemplating what he presumed was her comparison to the love she had then to the one she has now, softening the lines around her eyes and filling her cheeks with a sweet, gentle blush, he supposed he could see what the Inquisitor saw in her.

"Still, love seems to find a way even in the most impossible circumstances," Cassandra turned from the window to face him, and there was as easiness to her smile that stopped him from baulking when she said; "so, you wish to court the Warden Commander, then?"

He let out a breathy laugh and looked at his hands, "Yes, well, _no_... I-I mean... um... I suppose," he scratched the back of his head, "_Maker_, I'm not very good at this, am I?"

"It is understandable; courting is not exactly the kind of thing Templars are known for,"

"... I've never done this before," he admitted, his face turning scarlet, "I can't say I know how to "court" someone,"

Telling Cassandra was somehow easier than telling the Inquisitor or other members of his inner circle, possibly because like him she was _somewhat_ a Templar and knew what that entailed, and because he knew that she too held a Mage dear to her at some point in her life. The similarities between them were there, and briefly he wondered if it was a common thing for Templars to develop such relationships with Mages. They happened, of course, but he'd only ever heard of a small few and they were rare indeed.

"Forgive me if this seems presumptuous," the Seeker started, "but the Warden Commander does not seem like the type of person who would appreciate a conventional courtship. I doubt she has the patience for such frivolities."

Varric's tale of Aveline came to mind; Cullen smirked. _Maker_ but he wasn't thinking anything as ridiculous as _that_. "I don't suppose she does, but then neither do _you_,"

"Careful, Cullen, or I may make you regret your next choice of words," the warning was idle and he knew it, but he was smart enough to know not to push her.

She continued; "Regardless, I have watched her training the Mages and working with the Wardens here. She is a powerful woman, but... a _personal_ one. She is honest, and I don't think she would enjoy token gestures of affection, and I don't think you would be capable of being disingenuous."

No... Cassandra was right. His letters to her had only ever been honest and they were the reason she was in Skyhold, they were the reason she was as close to him as she was. Whatever ideas he had in his head of courtship; flowers, candles, honeyed words – none of them seemed to fit into what he truly wanted to say to her, what he truly wanted to convey.

That he was... _that he was... well..._

"Something personal, then," he said thoughtfully.

"Grand gestures are only so _grand_ by what they mean to the person," Cassandra said, "think on that. Think of what she means to you as a person; she deserves no less than that, I think,"

_**Yes**__... of course!_ Constance was not the kind of woman to be swayed by sweet nothings and he couldn't believe he'd even considered that. But... what was he going to do? How was he going to say...?

The heaviness in his pocket reminded him; _that_ was all he owned. And what grander gesture told her of how he felt for her than literally the only thing he was allowed to own since he became a Templar?

Suddenly inspired, the thought shoved his nervousness and uncertainty to the wayside, shoving energy into his veins so he barely even realized when he'd – highly inappropriately – stepped forward and scooped the Seeker into a tight hug, lifting her off her feet. Cassandra let out a startled yelp, her legs kicking as they left the ground.

"That's a fantastic idea! _Thank you!_" He said, ending the embrace nearly as quickly as it began, dropping her so that she faltered slightly on her feet and watched him with bemusement as he stepped out of the armoury in a few short strides, down the stairs and outside into the winter air.

Maker but he hoped she was in the office, hoped she would have the time to speak with him! He had to tell her... tell her he was sorry for the way he acted the previous night and all those years ago in the Tower, that he wanted to make amends, that he wanted something _more_.

Tell her that he... _that he..._

_Well..._

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading! Also thank you so much for all the kind words thus far, I cannot put into words how much I truly appreciate them.


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Notes:** So I watched Dawn of the Seeker.

It's hilariously cheesy, but in kind of a fun way, I think. The animation is a bit janky and the plot is predictable and downright contrived, but it's fun and watching babby Cassandra run around kicking the shite out of people doesn't really get old.

* * *

His purposeful walk across the battlements made it quite clear to the passing runners that he was not to be disturbed, and Cullen could barely pay them any mind past the pounding of blood in his ears.

Before getting to the door he reached into his pocket, just to make sure - and sure enough there it was, the coin his brother had given him before he left for his training when he was just a boy. It was heavy, solid silver - their father picked them up one Wintersend and gave them to his two youngest children as a gift. Andraste's holy symbol on the front was somewhat worn from time; there were moments when he worried it with the pad of his thumb, its smooth surface a comforting reminder of his humble upbringing in the wake of the Chantry's rule.

It meant a lot to him, but she meant more.

Cullen pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the office, the familiar smell of parchment, ink and wax drifting about the space. Now that Constance was sharing the office with him the room for manoeuvring had been lessened somewhat, especially as her research grew. Piles of books, scrolls and maps stood in orderly hills next to her wide teak desk; the walls in that corner were plastered in notes and reports, descending downwards in what looked like a hierarchy of events - some of which were his own reports taken from officers who sighted Darkspawn activity.

And in the middle of it all was Constance Amell, with her hound beside her occasionally huffing for attention, pressing his wet nose against her thigh to get her to absent-mindedly play with an ear.

She looked up from the map she was perusing, those eyes catching his instantly, and brushed her hair behind her ear offhandedly with a smile. His breath stilled like he was seeing her for the first time again; noting the way the light caught her hair and how she looked at him with that fond, easy look to her face.

"Good Afternoon," she said, brushing the map to the side, "is... everything alright?"

He'd been so taken with her that he barely even realized he wasn't saying anything. Cullen shook his head a little, trying to dispel the fuzzy silence that had overtaken his previously inspired, racing thoughts.

"I wonder if I might speak with you," he said, his voice breaking a little on the accentuated_ I_ in _might_.

"Of course,"

"_Alone_,"

Constance's eyes widened a little, her hands stilling on her desk. She looked around the office pointedly, "I- ah, y-yes, of course. Let us go out onto the battlements. There are too many distractions in here,"

He followed her out the left side-door onto the battlements after she ordered Dogmeat to stay, and worried the coin with his thumb in a heavy grip, choosing his words carefully. Cullen had never been very good at vocalising matters he felt quite personal, although he found his displeasure easier to speak of than he did his gratitude or indeed his affections. There was always that worry he wouldn't sound genuine or worthy of the person in front of him...

But when had Constance ever made him feel the fool for what he said? And with what he had to say to her... _well_, foolish or not, it was too serious to be considered disingenuous so he pushed that thought away. Hadn't Sera admonished him for being too serious, though?

_Maker's Breath_ but he was nervous.

There was no one about on the battlements so he seized the moment as best he could, grabbing her hands in his and holding them up to his chest, looking down into bashful, _beautiful_ blue eyes and noting in aside how short she still was in comparison to him.

"I wanted to apologise," he started, running his thumbs over her knuckles, both encased in leather, "the way I acted last night was... unbecoming. I hope I haven't hurt you, or made you feel uncomfortable,"

He could feel her hands twitch in his before her grip tightened, "Cullen, _Maker_, not at all," she said, her face reddening madly in what he presumed was memory of their... activities, "I'll admit I was a little... _surprised_, but it was not something to apologise for, far from it,"

"Even still, you deserve better than that," _you deserve better than me_, was the first thought that came to mind but he squashed the insecurity down – now was not the time for self-loathing, not while she was looking up at him like _that_.

"I have a lot to apologise to you for," he continued, "but, I also have a lot to thank you for, and I feel it should go without saying that over the past while I've grown quite close to you..."

Whether she was unsure of what to say or was just waiting for him to continue, he didn't know; she hummed in agreement and watched the way his thumbs traced the lines of her knuckles, the mountain breeze whipping the soft tendrils of her hair about her face but she made no movement to dispel them.

"I have something for you," he said a little too quickly, reaching into his pocket before he lost his nerve. Her free hand clasped his other before he returned it and pressed the coin into her palm.

Constance gripped it before opening her hand and holding it between her thumb and forefinger, "What is this?"

"That is the last thing I took from Ferelden before I became a Templar," he answered, meeting her curious gaze, "my brother gave it to me before I left. It was in his pocket - he carried it around everywhere - but he said it was for luck when he gave it to me,"

Branson was so young at the time, so young and so stupid and so _noisy_. Brash, bubbly Branson; once he'd come to terms with the fact that his big brother was leaving, leaving and possibly _not_ coming back for a very long time (perhaps even for good) he'd been solemn, and Cullen remembered actually wanting him to be his stupid, over-zealous self and not the strange, sad quiet that he was when they were out at the lake, skipping stones across the surface of the water.

And then brash, bubbly Branson bawled his eyes out when it actually came the time for Cullen to leave. The Mothers in the Chantry took everything from him, even the clothes his mother made and donated them to the needy before giving him something else to wear; he hid the coin in his mouth so they wouldn't take that too. He'd wanted to do what they said, wanted to be the best Templar he could possibly be, but he couldn't stand the thought of them taking the coin away, not when the image of his brother's crumpled face was still fresh in his memory.

When their father presented Branson with the coin the child had been happy for weeks, and lorded it over Cullen and Mia at every available opportunity that presented itself. So when he handed Cullen the coin by the lake that day and told him to take it, it rendered the older boy speechless.

It was a foolish, simple thing, but it was all he really had. It had been on his person through the worst and best moments of his life, and in giving it to her he felt like he was giving over a piece of himself.

Constance examined it, turning it over, testing the weight, running her thumb over the same grooves he had done so many times before to feel the surface he'd worn down with his worry, "This means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

"_You_ mean a lot to me," he said, relishing the conviction in his voice. Her eyes were soft and caring when she leaned forward to press her forehead against his, and the comfort that brought him was nameless, to know that she was feeling something too.

"Constance-"

"Please," she whispered, "just call me Con,"

Cullen smirked, "_Con_... I wanted to give you something to tell you how much I-" _how much I... _"... _care_ – for you. _Maker_ this is much easier when writing it down, isn't it?"

It was true, he found it much easier to pour over a draft or two before deciding what he wanted to say and even then, he hadn't really told her everything he wanted to. The letters were a buffer between his truth and what was socially acceptable, and without it he was back to that stuttering, awkward mess, _but he was saying something, _and it was certainly more than he ever said to her in the Tower.

Con laughed, "For you perhaps, I had trouble even in that regard,"

"What I'm trying to say is," he continued, his hands tightening around hers, heart in his throat, "is that, since writing to you and now having you here, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. I know I haven't deserved your affections-" she opened her mouth as if to try to contradict him but he kept talking, "but I find myself wanting them, even still. That coin is really all I own, the only thing I have that the Templars didn't give me, and if that returns your kindness in some way..."

He remembered how her letters had started off so nonchalant, so chatty and open and casual and how he'd been rather confused about the tone. And then slowly, over time, he'd relaxed enough to feel himself returning the gesture. It wasn't lost on him that, had he not taken that chance, it was unlikely she would have travelled all the way to see him...

Even if under the guise of aiding the Inquisition, a part of her was there for him, and he could scarcely believe that the Constance Amell he knew in the Tower was the Constance Amell standing in front of him. He brought her hands up and pressed his lips against her fingers clasped in his, because he had no words left for what he wanted to say; they all escaped him in the wake of knowing that despite the distance and the time, they were together-

With no Chantry rules to keep them apart any longer.

Maker, but he... _he... he really-_

"_Cullen_," she said his name like it was a word for something else, like it carried a greater weight than just his handle, and as she pulled her hands from his and slid the tips of her fingers along his jaw to wind in the hair on the back of his head, he supposed she was probably having trouble vocalising it too.

But were words really needed all the time? Did it need to be said how she felt for him when she looked up with eyes that heavily carried such _emotion,_ and her warm and pliant mouth parted just that bit as he leaned in and brought them together in a searing kiss?

Wasn't action sometimes better than discussion?

He held her tightly about the waist, the kiss _burned_, but in a different way from previous ones they've shared. Those were impassioned and teased of sex, this was something else entirely. It lit a fire in the bottom of his chest that crept up his front and into his face, made his fingers loathe to let her go, even though he knew it would eventually have to end.

Kisses shared previously were unsure, explorative, but this, _this_ was unquestionable, indisputable that it was nothing short of requited in the way they met each other, in the way it _burned_ and left him breathless, his heart hammering in his arms like he was laid bare. In a way he _was_ laid bare, telling her he cared, telling her in his own way that he...

… _That he loved her._

In the Tower, when Uldred returned with the news from Ostagar and everyone thought the Wardens perished in the battle, he thought he loved her then. He thought he loved her and she was dead and he would never see her again. But she was back in his life and she was so much more than that foolish infatuation, so much more than an inappropriate thought on a late night when he couldn't sleep. She was gentle and graceful and was kinder to him than he deserved, and she kissing him like she loved him back, and the feeling was so _full_ that it caught in his throat, nearly had him in tears.

He'd _never_ felt anything like it.

She was so warm, and so soft, and he couldn't think of a single thing he would rather do than have her in his arms at that moment in time.

They both breathed a long sigh when it ended, and the exchange was... _Maker_, but he was glad he didn't go with the traditional methods of "courting" her, because he doubted it would have felt as genuine, even if his attempts at speaking intimately with her could be described as fumbling at best, adolescent at worst.

"Thank you, Cullen," she said quietly, still holding the coin in one of her hands; he could feel the cool metal against his scalp somewhere, "I will keep it safe,"

His heart soared. There was a part of him that was terrified she would pull away, even though there was a lot of evidence to the contrary. He'd worried that perhaps he'd been moving too fast and that giving her such a personal item would seem too intimate, but by the tone of her voice that clearly wasn't the case. She was taking it, _cherishing it_, just as he took it from his brother when he was just a child and the thought made him feel lighter than air.

"Good," he breathed, relief flooding through him.

"You shall have to tell me about your siblings sometime, I didn't know you had any,"

"I could tell you about them now, if you want," he suggested, "if you can spare the time,"

But when he heard the office door on their side of the battlements open, they both rolled their eyes as a scout made his way out with a report in his hand. Cullen didn't entirely let her go; one hand stayed in the dip of her waist as he turned to regard the boy who, as he noticed by his burning face, looked to be _exactly_ the same scout who interrupted them the night previous.

Oh he was going to kill him.

The boy grimaced as his eyes darted from the position of the Commander's hand on Con's waist, to Cullen's angry expression, and moved as though he urged to bolt; "Report, sir! I-I can... I can come back later,"

Reluctant to pull away, his hand felt cold and empty as he took it from her and stepped forward, reaching out to take the report from the scout's hand, "No, it's fine. Give them here,"

"A letter as well, sir,"

Cullen took the reports and the letter, turning it over to see who it was from. By the overly-elaborate loopy hand-writing he knew instantly it was from Mia, and smirked that he had just been thinking on his siblings. It had been some months since their last correspondence – he sent a brief message to her after Corypheus's defeat if only to put her mind at ease; perhaps the letter the scout had given him was her reply.

"No rest for the wicked," Con said as the scout saluted and left like his heels were aflame, "I don't suppose I could hold you to that talk, could I?"

"I'm sure we'll find a few moments to spare," he replied smoothly, tucking the reports and the letter under his arm, "perhaps you'll even let me ask a couple of questions this time,"

"_If_ I feel so inclined," she replied just as easily.

* * *

_Cullen,_

_Thank the Maker it is all over. There has been much celebrating in South Reach now that the Breach has been closed for good, though I suppose people these days will look for any excuse._

_I should hope, now that the Mage Rebellion is over and the Breach has been closed, you would be so kind as to visit your long-suffering family that you haven't seen in years?_

_Branson asks about you every time the Inquisition is mentioned. We've all been praying for your safety. Hopefully things can finally clam down now so we can all return to our normal lives, or as normal as we can hope for since all of this started._

_It probably sounds foolish but even though we were worried for you, we are all really proud of you, Cullen. We have heard so many sorties from the Inquisition soldiers that pass through the town. I know you don't like to brag but it sounds like you have been doing some great work, and you are always in our thoughts._

_Seriously consider visiting us soon, even just to shut Branson up for a few minutes._

_Love,_

_Mia_

* * *

_Mia,_

_I wish I could say things have calmed down a little here, but there is still a lot of work to be done._

_Most of what we are doing now is relief for the Orlesian civil war, containing areas around remaining rifts and aiding those in the fallout of the Breach. Things should start to slow down soon so perhaps once it does, I will try my best to travel to South Reach._

_Give everyone my best, _

_Cullen_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Notes:** Damn I just have way too much crap going on right now to really be able to sink my teeth into these edits!

Not that I'm complaining, I do love being busy, and the past few weeks have been great! Good food, great friends, hilarious times. It's just tough to stick to a schedule when everyone and their dog want to spend time with me.

Like I said, not that I'm complaining...

I should be able to return to a schedule now, since the next week will be fairly calm. I recently commissioned a Cullen plushie from a friend in Hawaii, I'll post that up soon.

Please note the next chapter will have some mild NSFW themes and swearing.

And it may give you some Oghren feels.

* * *

Since giving the coin to Constance, something nameless had been passing between them. Cullen wanted to chalk it down to the intimate nature of their blossoming relationship; the lingering glances, the soft smiles, the chaste kisses before retiring for the evening - but there was something... _more_.

Slowly but surely, they were spiralling towards something. In what direction he wasn't sure, and he wasn't ready to start hoping for something he didn't know if she was ready to give, but it was there, and it was happening.

"Alistair and the rest of his team will be returning later this evening," Constance said to him some early morning, barely looking up from the report in her hand, "They sent this report yesterday. Oghren was correct about the Broodmother; Black- _Rainier_ cut off its' head, according to this. If I know Alistair and Oghren, they will want to celebrate. Will you join us?"

He wasn't usually one for much social interaction, mostly because he was so terribly busy but also partly because the nobles milling about the keep wouldn't leave him alone. Lately however his work had slowed, and he admitted he did want an excuse to accept a request from her, "If you wish for me to be there, sure,"

She smiled that sweet, caring smile, "I would like that. I'm looking forward to it."

The fact that she wanted him there - with those she was closest to - filled him with barely contained glee. They were her family of a sort, as she confessed to him that what family she had scattered about Thedas she didn't know and had never felt much kinship with anyway. He hadn't dared let slip that she was somewhat related to the Hawke family; that was the sort of information best left to a deep discussion, especially considering that the Wardens were indirectly responsible for Ulysses Hawke's death.

He decided he would join them if that was what she wished of him.

Constance retired early to have a bath and he'd heard that the Wardens returned from the Storm Coast reeking of Darkspawn; hopefully the rest of them would follow their Commander's suit. He finished what edicts and missives were left for him and made his way over to the tavern as the sun started setting over the peaks of the Frostbacks.

The noise was incredible; he almost didn't want to go in, his hand stilling on the door as the chatter of laughter, yelling and glass clinking travelled out from their revelry. He sighed and pushed the door open with the tips of his fingers, steeling himself for the evening, and stepped inside to see Oghren standing up on one of the long tables, gesturing with his tankard to a rapt audience;

"I'd never seen anything like it," the Dwarf said, those around the table seemed riveted to his tale, "there it was, this big, ugly beast at the back of the Taig, tentacles flailing all over the place. None of us could get near the blighted thing, not close enough to finish it off, even with all of Velanna's magic we couldn't break through the guard, and more Darkspawn started pouring in. Then, out of nowhere, _this _crazy duster," he pointed his tankard at Blackwall, who was smiling bemusedly, "breaks through the flank on the right and jumps, up onto the ledge of a fallen statue, and leaps onto the beast like a man possessed. And on his leap he drives his sword right into the thing's face! Just when we thought it was over, that we'd finally won, he pulls his sword out of the monster, - _and slices its' fucking head off_."

There was cheering, banging on tables; Cullen could see Bull and The Chargers scattered amongst the crowd of Wardens and other Inquisition soldiers, joining in on the roasting.

"To Blackwall!" Oghren stomped on the table and raised his drink into the air.

"_To Blackwall!_"

The Dwarf downed his drink and smashed his tankard on the floor amidst the cheering and cat-calling. Constance was on the other side of the room, conversing quietly with Alistair; they were looking pointedly at Blackwall and muttering to each other, occasionally nodding. As Cullen approached, Alistair smiled at his Commander and left them be, squeezing her upper-arm and winking before he pulled the Dwarf he was sure was called Sigrun over to the table of cheering Wardens.

"I'm glad you could make it," Constance said, grinning, "although I hope this lot don't scare you off,"

"Perish the thought,"

_Maker _but she looked incredible. She always did, but there was something about the way her hair caught the light in the Tavern and the flush in her face from the warmth that made her look positively ravishing.

Since giving her the coin it had been two weeks, more or less, of dancing around each other, of short kisses goodnight and tentative glances in each other's direction, and it was driving him _insane_. He _wanted_... but did she?

Cullen didn't know, and he was too terrified to ask. He thought that with giving Constance the coin, his mind would ease somewhat with his image of her - cement her in some way in a more loving light to outweigh his previously lascivious thoughts, but the memory of having her against the door, _panting, moaning in his ear_, made it clear his thoughts were far more treacherous.

The Chargers seemed to be getting along famously with the Wardens, clapping each other on the back, loudly guffawing and swapping jokes - Oghren was playing Diamondback with Iron Bull and Dalish, Velanna was in a rapt conversation with Krem and Dorian (he presumed it had something to do with Tevinter, by the nature of their hushed tones), Nathaniel and Varric were arguing with Sabot for a spare deck of cards to play Wicked Grace.

Over in the corner he could see Alistair and Sigrun sitting with Leliana, whom he had to do a double-take on because he could scarcely believe she was actually in the tavern with the rest of them. Divested of her usual hood and armour, she was listening to whatever Alistair was saying and idly tuning a mandolin; Cullen didn't think he'd ever seen the woman look so young and unguarded before, and the sight didn't fail to make him smile.

"Hey, _Commanders_," Varric yelled in their direction, and as he and Constance exchanged glances and raised eyebrows, they shrugged in the Dwarf's direction, "you joining us for Wicked Grace?"

Cullen shook his head, "Oh no, I'm not looking for a repeat of the last time," not in front of his soldiers at least.

Varric laughed and managed to wrestle the cards away from Sabot, making his way over to them, "Don't worry, Curly, Ruffles won't be joining us. She's ass-deep in preparations for Leliana's inauguration," the Dwarf elbowed Constance in the hip and winked, "or maybe someone else can try their hand at getting you down your smalls this time,"

The Commander flushed and Constance laughed behind her hand. Varric didn't wait for an answer, he just side-eyed him while he followed Nathaniel over to the long table, throwing the cards down in front of Stitches and taking their seats.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when the Mage beside him leaned in, her breath tickling the skin of his neck and murmured, "Yes, what a terrible shame it would be for me to take all of your clothes off, _Commander_,"

As she sauntered over to Leliana and Alistair he openly gaped, the blood previously in his face draining to flow south as his over-active imagination took over and he pictured her, stripping him down to nothing and having her way with him-

_Maker_ but he was going to need a drink. Soon.

The tavern had never been so full, and Sabot never so surly. Cullen didn't drink much or often; he preferred being in control of himself and alcohol and the paranoia that came with his withdrawal symptoms were not a good mix, so he tended to avoid it. That didn't mean he didn't indulge himself in one of the ales that Sabot stocked, hideous as they were even by Ferelden standards. How Dorian could be so quietly fanatic about them was absolutely beyond him.

But that ale really was swill; he tried his best not to pay much attention to it was he watched a few rounds of Varric and Nathaniel trying to out-do each other in Wicked Grace. Blackwall, still being praised for his victory, was well on his way to becoming completely ossified because every time his drink approached the bottom of his tankard another would appear in front of him as if by magic.

The Wardens were certainly impressed by him, and if Alistair was able to let go of his previous grievances to celebrate his success then the man must have done something right.

Still tuning the mandolin, he watched as Leliana continued on with her conversation with Constance and Alistair across the other side of the room. The Mage brushed her hair from her eyes as she turned slightly at the waist to look around and caught his eye, and it was one of those moments where he felt the distance between them lessen to almost nothing. For the last while their work had kept them occupied and if he was honest, he was unsure of where things were heading with her on that intimate level. He didn't want to rush, but he also didn't want to avoid her.

And really, he was waiting for some sort of confirmation from her.

Constance smiled at him, waving a little, whether blushing because of him or because of the heat in the tavern, he didn't know. Cullen smiled back, his stomach fluttering.

Until _that_ Dwarf, not Varric or Sigrun, but Oghren sat down heavily beside him, and suggested lowly, "So, you and the Boss, eh?"

His breath was raw and stank of a brewery, even in the midst of the tavern. Cullen felt his skin crawling as the Dwarf continued in his thick, heavy drawl; "I didn't think that big idiot was serious when he said so... thought it was just a joke."

The memory of Alistair and Oghren taking-the-piss on the battlements made him twitch; as he turned to look at the flaming-haired Dwarf sitting beside him he was met with a dark, foreboding glare, "_Listen_," Oghren hissed, low enough that he wasn't heard over the cheering as Nathaniel took the pot, "I've known the Boss for a long time, _a real long time_; and I've known her for long enough to see when something's changed in her. Long enough to be fairly sure she hasn't shared her bed with _anyone,_"

… _she had always refuted romantic advances. Alistair, Zevran, even myself... until now_ – Leliana's words rang in his head and he wondered briefly if that was still true. After all, she spoke of no previous relationships and Oghren knew her beyond the events at Amaranthine

"Get to the point, Dwarf," he growled, mildly impressed when the slighter man squared up to him. Then again, he had blackened Iron Bull's remaining eye and if that said something for his bravery or his stupidity, Cullen didn't know if he would really be able to handle him in a fight. Nathaniel spoke of his ferocity in battle, and Constance vouched for him whenever the topic was brought up.

"My point is," and it was only then that he noticed the Dwarf fingering the dagger in his hand, "I don't see what makes you so damned special. If I find out you hurt her in any way, I'll _personally_ carve you up into little pieces and send you back to whatever _shithole_ you came from, do I make myself clear?"

As if to prove his point he stabbed the table, driving the knife deeply into the wood beside Cullen's wrist. Rage exploded behind his eyes; oh he was going to _kill_ that Dwarf if it was the last thing he did on this earth-

"_Oghren_!" He heard Constance beside him snap, making him jump, "_What_ are you doing?"

With a _clink_, the Dwarf pulled his knife out from the wood of the table and sheathed it behind his back. What few people who noticed the fiasco turned away, back to watching Varric and Nathaniel square off.

The Dwarf grinned, "Nothin', Boss," he drawled, "jus' layin' down a few ground rules. Someone has to look out for you that isn't that stupid mutt-"

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Oghren," she said, the smooth, well-bred diction of her voice cut a very commanding tone, and folded her arms, "now leave Cullen alone,"

"Suit yourself," Oghren got out of his chair, catching sight of Scout Harding tentatively entering the bar and making a beeline straight for her – to which Sigrun instantly noticed and cried _Oghren, no! You have kids, for the good of your Ancestors keep it in your pants!_

"I'm sorry about that," Constance sat in the Dwarf's place, her eyes shining with concern, "He can be a bit... _passionate_,"

Passionate wasn't the word. Cullen felt his knuckles cracking as he flexed them out, chewing the inside of his cheek. It was clear the Dwarf cared about her, perhaps he even loved her, so that eased him a little even if the slighter man didn't show it in the best way. Knowing she had someone so ferocious who would happily knife a man just to keep her safe was somehow reassuring.

If Oghren was in love with her, Cullen honestly couldn't blame him. Constance had the sort of easy beauty and grace that neither demanded attention nor did it push away, and her personality was much the same. She cared, _deeply_, about the men under her command and the people at her side, and it was no wonder if Oghren loved her, or that Alistair and Leliana had tried to ask her for more.

And yet she – _apparently_ – took none of them. Not even Alistair, with whom she arguably had a minor romantic involvement with.

Suddenly Cullen didn't feel so unsure of his own inexperience.

The night wore on cheerfully, although Constance commented that it felt more like babysitting than it did revelry for her, and he could understand why. That wasn't to say there weren't merits to it; Alistair had dragged Scout Harding into a dance and Cullen didn't think he'd ever seen the Dwarf blush so crimson before, her many freckles standing out in harsh relief. Leliana eventually tuned the mandolin to her satisfaction and sang for the rest of the evening, the incredibly powerful lilt of her voice bringing everyone's hearts higher. Tanner arrived, drunk, and nearly fell over himself when he noticed Cullen was there, terrified at the idea of both of his Commanders being in the same place to see him make a fool of himself.

But then Velanna had taken offence to something Dorian said – he caught the end of something about Tevinter and Elves and slavery and other such slurs – and they had to be physically separated by some of the Templar recruits who managed to stop a fireball from expanding out of control, and three other Wardens holding Velanna back. Constance was hiding her face in her hands and shaking her head.

Iron Bull leaned down, elbowing him in the shoulder as they bemusedly watched the spectacle, one of the Templars pulling Dorian back with both armoured hands about his waist while he clawed at the air close to the Elf, "You see," he started, "this is why shacking up with a Mage is risky business."

Cullen snorted, raising his brow, "I don't believe I get your meaning,"

"They're pretty crazy when you get 'em into bed. One time, Dorian got so excited he set the curtains on fire,"

It was the worst possible moment for Cullen to take a sip of his drink because he spat it out at the sheer audacity, the image burning across his mind as he thought of Constance losing control like that, in the midst of an orgasm so strong something went up in _flames_. _Risky business indeed. _The last thing he wanted to think of was Bull entangled with Dorian after just imagining something so enticing... _Maker have Mercy... _

Velanna and Dorian were separated on either side of the tavern after that. Cullen kept as far away from Iron Bull as he could so as not to hear any more untoward stories of his relations, and found some solace in sitting next to Constance, watching another game of Wicked Grace but this time between Alistair, Nathaniel, Scout Harding, Varric, Dalish and a slightly more sober Tanner... and they apparently weren't playing for _coin_.

It was a little strange... not the game or the people, just the feeling of acceptance that was pleasantly sitting in the bottom of his chest. Before Constance arrived at Skyhold, the Wardens seemed so foreign even though they were from the surrounding lands; there had always been that _off thing_ about them that made Cullen feel ever so slightly isolated when speaking with them. They had their secrets and their _otherness_ and it was hard not to feel excluded when they were around him.

What was strange was how that feeling of isolation wasn't so present now that he understood them a little better; from their strange side-effects to how the morals of their Commander inspired them, he could make comparisons and associations even if he didn't have all the details, and it put both him and them at ease.

The Chargers didn't need such information to form kinship with others – they could associate by alcohol and jokes but then that was all they really needed to share drinks with the Wardens.

With Cullen, there was an understanding on a deeper level, so he felt comfortable when refusing their offers to join in on the game and welcomed with his presence in the banter, and in time as with the Inquisition they would ease into something more again, something more important than drinking or card games.

He watched with amusement from a chair behind Varric as their game continued in a hushed, barely contained quiet. Tanner and Alistair who were obviously _terrible_ at card games were both visibly sweating and eyeing Nathaniel nervously. Cullen could feel the air change as Constance took the seat opposite him and curiously peered over the Dwarf's shoulder. They all presented their hands and there was a massive cheer as Nathaniel gave the best hand again, ordering Tanner to take off his coat, to which the Mage flushed and began pulling the silverite hooks from the catches on the inside. Cullen snorted as Iron Bull and Nathaniel yelled at him to go slower, Alistair let his forehead drop to the table in relief.

"... Can I ask you something?" Constance leaned over the table to speak to him, and Cullen turned at the waist to address her. Her eyes were glittering; a beautiful, pink flush filled the edges of her cheekbones.

"Of course," he answered, noting how her knee brushed against his, "anything,"

He could just about hear her clearly over the chatter and noise in the tavern; divested of his coat, Tanner was loudly proclaiming that he would catch a cold and Nathaniel warned him that he would lose more before the night was over. As Constance leaned in, Cullen did the same, until they were at an intimate enough distance that he began to grow a little embarrassed, wondering if it was so obvious to those around them.

"The other night," she began lowly, looking around to make sure no one could overhear, "when... we were in your office, when... the day I took over while you rested. You were saying something,"

While he waited for her to gather herself he felt heat creep up his neck and into his cheeks. She was asking him about the night he was kissing her against the door – _more_ than kissing her. The memory of how she felt in his arms was still fresh and raw in his mind, and it was easy to get lost in the thought of it.

"... Yes? I know the time you are referring to," He urged her on.

"I..." she looked up at him from the table, her mouth curling into an awkward smile, "you were saying something; I was wondering what you were trying to say."

Cullen was genuinely stumped, he certainly wasn't concentrating on what he was saying at the time, he was rather... _occupied;_ "I'm afraid I don't quite remember, _er_... was it something-"

"Oh it was nothing too-"

"I hope I didn't-"

He smirked as she flustered a little, and they both chuckled as the air between them lifted. "You were saying," she continued, eyes shining, _honest_, but a little shy, "that you wanted something, but you didn't finish. We were interrupted,"

"... _Ah_," _ah indeed_, he thought. Cullen scratched the back of his neck, his mouth suddenly dry. _Maker_, but what a thing to ask. With the memory so fresh and so raw it was a wonder his face wasn't bursting into flames, and she wanted to know... _surely_ she knew what he was trying to say. _Surely_ she knew that he was trying to tell her that he wanted their moment against the door to turn into some wild, passionate evening in his quarters.

"W-well..." and already he was off to a bad start; Cullen grabbed her hand as an embarrassed smile spread across his face and he forced himself to look into her eyes, because she deserved no less, "I was _eh_... I was trying to say that I... that I _wanted_ you,"

As the words fell out of his mouth he watched as Constance's face turned from something perfectly neutral and inquisitive to a sort of shock. He could feel his blood start to race as she adjusted her position on her chair and she leaned in further, her left hand still in his, but her mouth gaped as if she had something to say and couldn't find the words.

He found himself asking before he could stop himself; "I would ask if you feel something similar..."

The air crackled between them, as it had been for days but nothing to such an extent. His skin felt hot, hypersensitive in his clothes and armour, his mouth tingled and his thoughts raced as he flitted between being horrified with what he just said and mildly impressed with himself at the same time. Everything in the tavern narrowed down to _her_, to the feeling of her gloved hand in his, leather against leather, to the sight of the blush in her cheeks deepening even further, staining across her nose-

"_Yes..._" she whispered, and her hand tightened in his.

She used his hand to pull herself forward in a motion that was so _slow_, her eyes went dark and narrowed, his gaze dropped to her slightly parted lips as she moved closer and he was only vaguely aware that he hadn't taken in a breath since she whispered that one little word.

Constance's breath was warm on his ear; it sent a shiver tumbling down his spine, "_I want you,"_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Notes:** Well, here it is.

20\. Cock-gargling pages.

I'm not even mad.

As a warning, this chapter is absolutely NSFW and contains swearing.

* * *

"_I want you,"_

Not _I wanted you_, as in the past tense he just used, but _I want you_, as in _now_. As in right now. This second.

Who would have thought three simple words would have made his brain cease to function entirely? No one in the tavern could have possibly heard her say it; she was too close to him for that, and since admitting his honest truth to her he _still_ held his breath like he was drowning.

When she pulled back to flick her eyes up to him he finally, shakily released that breath, and by the sooty way she was looking at him his heart started pounding in his ears.

That nameless _thing_ between them was spiralling, faster and faster as they looked at each other for what seemed like a breathless lifetime of indecision. He had wanted her confirmation, and now he had it, he hadn't hurt her or made her feel uncomfortable the night he picked her up and ground into her against his door – in fact that seemed to be the source of the thing that went without words-

The tension. The excitement. The barely contained lust. _Reciprocated_.

_Maker_ but he would have her.

"... Come with me," he pulled her up by the hand, the words barely audible as another cheer erupted from the gathered crowd watching Nathaniel win another hand and order Varric to remove his ridiculous shirt.

He couldn't go out the front; the walk up the barracks was entirely too far and too open for his liking, and the more time spent travelling the more time _would_ be spent thinking about all the negatives and not the absolutely positive idea of Constance Amell, _naked_, in his bed, _writhing_-

They both ignored the cheering and clapping as Varric made a show of removing his shirt, he pulled her by the hand up the tavern stairs onto the next floor, around the corner and up the next set of stairs. Her hand was trembling in his, and he could hear her start to laugh a little breathlessly as she caught her foot on one of the steps and stumbled.

"_Wait_..." Constance tugged her hand to make him stop, nearly hitting his head off the sloped ceiling as he tried to make his way up the last set of steps – but she was looking off into the far corner, "... it's _you_..."

But she wasn't looking at him, she was staring across at Cole who was sitting on the wooden railing, looking down over his dirty knees into the tavern beneath, kicking his legs as more cheers echoed up. The boy turned, eyes hidden in the shadow of his hat; "... you _see?_ I _told _you," he said, smiling, "you wanted to believe me but you couldn't, and now you do,"

Whatever Cole told her, frankly Cullen didn't care, his focus was solely on the woman who just confessed that she wanted him and he could think of nothing else. He pulled on her hand again as she looked from him to the boy who resumed his previous perusal of the events downstairs, and fell into his hurried step as he pushed open the door into the abandoned room beyond-

And didn't even wait for the door to fully close behind them as he pressed her against the far door to the barracks, his mouth hotly devouring hers, hearing her muffled squeak loud in his ears that they were finally free of the noisy tavern. Both of her hands were in his hair, the plate of his armour against her chest and her tongue drove into his mouth with the sort of reckless abandon that surprised him. She tasted of recently consumed wine and smelled cleanly of some sweet soap; he wasn't foolish enough to think they were both drunk, neither of them had drank enough to constitute even being a bit tipsy - and that meant they were both in control of what they wanted-

\- Even thought it felt absolutely _out of control_.

It was hard, hot, fast kissing, harsh breathing and scrabbling against the oppressiveness of their clothes. He could feel her release his hair from between her fingers to reach behind her and claw at the bolt on the door, laughing in triumph as she slid it free and moved him forward so she could pull it open. Then she was the one to grasp his hand, and he could just about see the wide, red blush on her cheeks and nose as she turned through the doorway to drag him into the cool night air.

There was no mistaking where they were going, what was happening, and the very thought left him breathless and terribly excited. They passed through the second turret without incident, and with a pounding heart he could see the door to his– to _their_ office just a few meters away.

With every fibre of his being he wished that the spiralling feeling in his gut didn't stop, that nothing would interrupt them, that she didn't suddenly change her mind and leave, and those worries seemed so far-fetched to him when she was the one to push him up against the door to _their _office and kiss him with a fervour he didn't think was possible from her, considering her easy, soft personality.

_No_, not so easy and soft that her tongue was in his mouth. Who would have thought Constance Amell, Hero of Ferelden, twisted her tongue around his like she was _fucking_ him with it? All of his clothes and armour were all too hot and tight, too much – especially as she pulled away from him in that second to press her mouth against his chin, his jaw-line, _so soft_-

And yet, as a man so unused to any sort of intimacy, he felt his legs start to wobble and his eyes roll back as she placed a hand on the other side of his throat to anchor her weight, lips and tongue wet and pressing against the corded muscle lining his neck, and suddenly the door behind them seemed like a monumental point to get past.

"_Merciful Andraste..._" he mouthed in the still, quiet night air.

Cullen squeezed her waist, his head tipping back against the door as pure pleasure nailed him in the gut, had him bracing his forearms against her hipbones, her free hand thumbing open the catches securing his furs to the pauldrons on his shoulders.

His breathing was punctuated with little moans he couldn't seem to stop. Already hard from the hot, fast kissing, with her mouth on his neck his cock was practically throbbing and his knees were trembling. The furs fell to the ground and her hand pushed the bolt on the door haphazardly to the side – _she was shaking, too_ – and they stepped free from the position to push inside; he kicked the door closed behind them.

More kissing, more roving hands, down her back, over that heavy coat that seemed entirely _too much clothing_ as he ached to get his hands on her, all _over_ her if he could.

The bed – _too far_ – instead he walked her back until the back of her thighs met the edge of his desk and he broke away from her mouth briefly to lean over her and shove whatever was on the desk there to the floor-

Her legs parted around his thighs, their hips pressed together, _ground together_, as he leaned down on her with his weight until her back was against the surface of the desk, a hot, unmistakable moan coming out of her at the intimacy, at the closeness.

"_Con-_" he breathed, but couldn't say anything else, his eyes twisted shut as she undulated, arching up against him, one of her heels pressing into his backside to press them closer together.

The bed was too far, too much of a journey and he needed her more than anything he'd ever needed in his life. He felt himself quickly unravelling, becoming unbound by whatever reservations were holding him back as they kissed and panted and ground together like they couldn't wait to get out of their clothes.

Hands roughly opened laces, threw aside armour – he tore through the catches of her coat in record time, wrenching it open and she _arched_, thrusting up tits straining against a thin shirt and moaning, her hands grasping his forearms, and his jaw nearly hit the floor at how impossibly sexual she was, at her abandoned restraint, at how she looked up at him with darkened eyes and swollen lips and tousled hair and if she looked debauched the first time she was practically-

Although he nearly _did_ jump out of his skin when there was a deep, very inhuman, exasperated sounding growl that couldn't have possibly come from her, and it made her pause too. There was a moment when they exchanged a glance of surprise. One of his arms was divested of all armour and the other was half-done; the plates hanging awkwardly at an angle there. His cock was pulsing, pressed against the juncture of her hips...

_What was that Maker forsaken sound...?_

In the corner of the room, Dogmeat huffed again, _not quite a growl_, and Cullen was sure if dogs could emote through facial expressions he would have had a very disapproving look. The dog silently sat, one paw crossed against the other as if to blame them for intruding on his time, and continued to stare at them as they breathed heavily. Cullen leaned up on one arm to glare across at him, wondering... wondering if perhaps they could just...

He grimaced. No. _Not in front of the __**dog**_. It was just too... _weird_.

Constance's lips were tracing a path along his jaw, her coat pulled down past her shoulders and tangled in arms leaning her up to reach him. With an annoyed growl he straightened up, pulling her up with him with hands around her waist, kissing her reassuringly when she made a distressed whine in the back of her throat. The coat slid off her shoulders easily, dropping to the floor beside his desk, gloves crumpled up in the sleeves.

Dogmeat continued to stare, ears pointed up. With a sigh he steered the woman in his arms towards the ladder, "Go," he said, "I'll be right up,"

The words were slurred and sluggish. Without her coat her arms were bare, pale and smooth, gooseflesh rising in the chill of the room. Constance made a face at him that was something torn between lustful impatience and annoyance, but she ascended the ladder regardless, and Cullen used that time to untie the laces holding the last of his armour together, letting bracers and breastplate fall to the floor without a care.

His chest pumped as he fought to catch his breath. Even though it would be better in the long-run for them to make use of the bed, the fact that something disturbed them at all was enough to annoy him. "I hope you're pleased," he murmured at the dog, glaring as he climbed the ladder. Dogmeat huffed through his nose, and Cullen was sure if the dog could have derisively rolled his eyes he would have. The dog rested his head in his paws, ears relaxed as Cullen reached the top and pulled himself up into the room beyond.

Constance was standing half-turned to the bed, her arms folded, one hand on her neck like she didn't know what to do.

As he hauled himself up onto his feet she turned to look at him, and she was every bit the shy, sweet girl in the Tower from years ago, gazing up at him from silvery lashes with eyes that were too deep. Indecision, caution, unsurety all showed in the crease in her brow, her eyes were wide, mouth in a thin line. She rubbed the back of her neck, messing the soft fall of hair already mused from their activities; she looked so young, so young and so _open_ it was jarring to see.

He wanted to tell her – _I've never done this before, I have no idea what I'm doing_, but as he watched her start to falter that little bit he found he just didn't have the words. The woman he loved, the woman he'd _always_ loved was standing in his room, barely a foot from his bed, looking between him and the messy sheets like she wasn't sure what was to happen next and to be honest, neither did he-

But he could hazard a guess.

Past him wanting her, wanting _this_, for _years_, there was nothing. No Inquisition or Wardens or Chantry, just her and just him and he needed to be sure she was okay with that, as he strode forward and took her face in his hands, kissed her because he didn't have the words for it and felt that tension in her dissolve again.

It was a little different then, a little _more_, even though it was softer and longer than the near frantic urgency from downstairs. She leaned into him and wound her fingers in the thick, dark canvas of his over-shirt that protected his skin from his armour. She had to bend back a little, lean up on the balls of her feet because she was short, and as his hands found purchase on her hips he started pulling the end of the thin linen shirt she was wearing from where it was tucked into breeches.

They both tugged the shirt free, up and over her head, breaking away from the kiss then and then her _skin_ was bare under his hands, and she was so _soft_.

_Maker_ she was so soft. Constance Amell, The Hero of Ferelden, Vanquisher of the Fifth Blight who routinely fought Darkspawn for a living - had skin like warm satin, and the very notion of it had his eyes twisting shut because looking was almost too much.

Her back was warm and smooth under his palms, and he wondered if his touch was distracting her as her mouth slowed against his and she squirmed, making that little moan again that reminded him there was still quite a bit of clothing between them. He jumped, _jerked_, when he felt her fingers underneath his shirt on the skin of his stomach and was suddenly breathless.

But Cullen couldn't open his eyes – _it was just too much_ – as she tugged the hem of the thick dark over-shirt up and he pulled it off the rest of the way and somewhere, _somehow_, her breast-band slipped to the floor and _then_ she was flush against his torso. A loud, choked moan came out of him and he tugged her waist, pressing them closer together. Her warm skin on his was important, _Maker so important_ that he had to still himself just to breathe, pressing his forehead into the juncture of her neck.

"Cullen..." she whispered, trembling, just as he was, her arms over his shoulders, around his neck, nails and fingers rubbing gentle lines over his shoulders and upper arms. He could feel every sweet sinew of her and it nearly brought him to tears because he'd never experienced something so intensely _close_ before.

Cullen never _allowed_ anyone to get so close. Work and duty took precedent over everything, and if he was honest it was a rare moment that he ever wanted such a thing that wasn't the simple fulfilment of lust.

How would anything ever compare again? How would the feeling of her in his arms, the woman he loved, their skin making contact in electrifying presses, how could that ever be replaced?

He pressed his mouth where her neck met her shoulder, and he could hear how heavy her breath was next to his ear, could feel it in the rise and fall of her chest as her breasts pushed and fell against him. She was shaking, tilting her head like she did the first night to bare more of the smooth column of her throat to ask for more, and the fact that what he was doing was having such an effect on her brought him a massive amount of pride.

Constance pulled him with hands smoothing down his upper arms, her skin tasted clean as he blatantly circled his tongue just _there_, below her ear, eliciting a thin whine. He followed, although with their proximity they were likely to tumble to the ground faster than reach any sort of destination. When he felt her toeing off a boot he did the same, and for a brief, hilarious moment they nearly _did_ entangle themselves trying to get respective boots off.

Through the sniggers of laughter and unsure, faltering feet, he'd only barely caught glimpses of her through narrowed eyes, so much _skin_ bared to him, and as he pulled her hips back into him once their shoes were off and walked her back, the backs of her knees hit the edge of his bed and his thumbs hooked into the edges of her breeches – _it was happening_.

He didn't know if it was nerves or something else that made her kiss him like that, when she suddenly leaned up and he could only barely see the redness in her face, but he took the offer regardless, and let her explore his mouth with her tongue as he slid breeches and small-clothes down, past the pert roundness of her arse and down her thighs.

The kiss continued as he leaned his weight down, pushing her back, but the bed was lower than she must have anticipated. Between her parted thighs he leaned down on one knee, having to let go of round hips to brace himself over her-

And _Maker_ she was... _naked_.

So, so fucking _naked_. Naked, in _his_ bed, on _his_ sheets. Her pale skin seemed iridescent in the light of the candles, her face burned, arms thrown over her head, her silvery hair spread over the sheets. Skin was smooth and unblemished, with the occasional pink splotch from where he'd squeezed or perhaps rubbed a little too fiercely. Her breasts were high and tight, nipples small and hard in the cold and moving up and down as she panted, down past a smooth stomach, down past thick, muscular hips and thighs parted and up against the bed, down further to-

He didn't know how long he gazed at her, his mouth filling with saliva, jaw slack and eyes wide, so hard he couldn't even comprehend, but he just couldn't believe how all of his fantasising and dreaming of her in that very position was actually a reality. Not a dream, not a Demon, _real_.

Constance Amell was naked in his bed. He was holding on to one of her knees, parting her thighs wider to accommodate his hips, and she was looking up at him with that flushed, open honesty that said she wanted him, just like she told him in the tavern. _It was happening._

_It was real!_

Cullen wanted to pinch himself, or say some sort of prayer to the Maker even as blasphemous that the idea probably was.

What part of him that was so used to Chantry teachings told him to look away, avert his eyes and give the woman her dignity, and the compulsion to do so was as strong as it was embarrassing for him to look down at her, trapped between the bed and his own state of undress. But he didn't dare.

_This_ was the woman of his dreams, literally laid bare to him, and he would have her.

Constance reached up, cupping his cheek in her palm, "That face," she said, "if I could bottle that look, I would make you wear it all the time if I could,"

He didn't know what she saw in his face then; adoration, _lust_ perhaps, but he was sure it turned to some sort of apprehension as she leaned up, slowly, keeping his gaze to reach forward, and started pushing the waistband of his trousers down.

If he was going to be naked - in front of her, _with_ her, then that meant-

_Oh to the Void with it_, he thought, shoving aside his worry in favour of what came after, letting her push breeches and small-clothes down first with her hands and then with her feet. He let them fall the rest of the way, stepping out of them, shuddering when the cool air breezed over his overheated cock and crawled over her as she pulled herself further up the bed, her thighs pressing into his legs-

And then he was on her, _pressed_ against her with a low, choked groan as pleasure shot up his spine, feeling the heat of her along his length almost to a burning degree. She arched, slid herself _up _along him, her legs going tight around his hip and thigh and the feeling of her fried his brain, narrowed everything down to how _good_ it all felt and how, without a shadow of a doubt, that the spiralling feeling he'd been feeling since he'd first kissed her in the courtyard had been travelling towards that focal point of having her under him, panting, moaning, arching up against him.

Kneeling back between her legs, he wrenched her hips up to rest against his thighs and held her there, used his hips to move as he slid against her again, parting her folds with the length of his cock after some brief moment of fumbling to find the right movement and angle. His hands were trembling but his jaw had come loose and so had his voice, each sweet wet slip along her felt so unbelievable and he was only vaguely aware that he was making some pathetic, low moaning sound at every pass against her, but there was no stopping it.

Because she was making some Maker-damned noise as well, some half-breathy moan that just unravelled him further as she leaned back into the bed, legs haphazardly around his hip and back and her hands fisting in the sheets above her head.

There was something to be said for those bragging Templars speaking of that wet, hot heat, because she was soaked. He could feel it coating his cock from where it was pressed against her, slipping between hot, _soaking fucking wet_ folds, and he could hear the moist click as skin rubbed against skin with ever increasing force and speed.

It was _maddening_ because it wasn't nearly enough, because it had the potential to _feel_ so much better and he wanted to do this so terribly much-

Without another thought other than the urge to get inside her _somehow_, some way, he took himself in his hand, the other in a vice-like grip on her backside, and tried to find that _way_ to get in her, his breath catching hard and stilling in his throat when he rubbed the head between her and she sharply adjusted her hip up, and he could feel it-

Slowly, so slow it was sin, he started pushing himself inside, and he couldn't _breathe_. She _burned_, so hot and so wet that his jaw dropped-

"_Wait!_" She cried out suddenly, hands that were previously turning sheets above her head were planting against his lower stomach, almost in a strike as the sound of the slap of her palms against his abdomen echoed throughout the room. He stopped instantly, eyes going wide at the sudden, jarring halt.

Constance was rigid, and not the fun kind of rigid either. Legs that were once flexing and clenching around him were trembling at the knees. Through the lustful haze he focused on her face, and saw not the open-mouthed, blushing ease of pleasure, but a grimace of pain.

_No... no no no. What happened?! _

"Con-"

"I-I... I need..." she was breathing roughly, and he was visibly shaking; on one hand he wanted nothing more than to take the pleasure he sought and drive into her, hard and fast, but on the other-

On the other, he was hurting her.

Her body was still, her hands moving from where they pushed against his abdomen to smooth up her thighs, then inward towards her mound and the sight would have been something he considered erotic, had he not watched with fascination at the faint, pale-green glow of magic on her fingers.

"I just... n-need to..." but she trailed off, fingers sliding over her sex and down, two of them parting her further and it tore a reluctant moan out of his mouth when he felt them graze the head of his cock, still partly wedged within her.

He moaned again, and so did she, when the heavy tingle of magic flowing through where fingers met flesh raced from his cock up his body in a shuddering wave. Cullen could _feel_ her pulsing around him, the fluttering of her opening starting out as a gradual, almost pained set of hard squeezes before speeding to something more gentle, rhythmic.

She almost looked a little surprised, and her hips started to move as her hands wonderingly returned to pushing against his stomach, "I didn-_nnn_~ d-didn't mean to..."

But she cut herself off with a quiet, unsure moan, hips rotating slowly like it was the first time she'd used them that way.

Cullen watched her; watched her go from something frightened, unsure to something else entirely, and he didn't dare move lest he ruin the unbelievably sensual visual aid. After some few tentative rotations of her hips – _rotations_, not thrusts, only the head of him was inside her and she made no movement to take more – she started making the circles wider, and judging by the way her eyes rolled back and how her legs and arse flexed, she was enjoying it.

More than enjoying it.

The sounds, _Maker_, the sounds she made were much more guttural, somehow more intense, deep and breathy; "_Hahh... hahh- a-ahhh..._" as she worked herself with the head of him in slow, steady swirls. Her hands, once being used to push him away, instead seemed to use his body as leverage to move that her hips were still resting on his thighs, and somehow _that_ was more erotic than watching her touch herself.

Whatever she did, it helped. _Mage_, his mind exuded, but not in the usual, almost mistrustful sense he associated with the title. _A Formidable Mage_. What spell had she cast, and _why_? It was a quick reminder that the woman under him wasn't just famous and influential, she was also powerful.

With just a snap of her fingers or an uttered word she could incinerate him in an instant, and yet she wasn't using that power to do such things, no; she'd used it as some sort of aid so she could _fuck_ him.

Everything the Sisters at the abbey told them of Mages during their training seemed so off; that they were cursed and dangerous and yes, perhaps some of them were, but they were also, underneath that power, just people who wanted like every other. Sure, the Chantry told them as young, impressionable children that the act he was currently participating in was bad enough, but with a _Mage – _it was a wonder he wasn't being struck by lightening.

As if two people sharing pleasure was such monumental sin. As if watching her tease the head of his cock and start to lose herself had anything to do with the _Chantry_.

As if her being a Mage was enough of a reason not to fall desperately in love with her.

Cullen started shaking again, but for a different reason, as he watched her hips move a little faster, her moans get a little higher, and who would have thought that Constance Amell, so soft spoken and quiet could moan like that when in the midst of pleasure, and who would have thought that he would be the reason for her to be in such a state?

He watched as a pink flush began on her cheeks and then spread in an instant, her hips performing some upswing that had him whining at the sight, pink turning _red_ and staining her cheeks, down her neck, the top of her chest and into swollen nipples, and the urge to sink into her was _impossible_ for him to deny any longer, not when she looked like _that, _not when she looked so incredibly debauched.

No, he couldn't deny it any longer. It was a torture of a sort. A sweet but nevertheless unyielding torture, and he had the option of turning it in his favour if he so wished.

So he did, as he watched her arch he used the movement to slowly inch forward, groaning lowly the entire journey inside, burning, _burning_-

"_Oh_, oh _Maker_, Cullen," she pushed with her hands, unsure, but the _sounds_ she made - "_Cullen... Cullen!_"

It was so _hot_ inside of her, so _hot_ and so _wet_ and so Maker-forsaken _tight_. She burned and clenched around him as he slowly impaled her until his hips gently touched hers. A bare, throaty supplication of "_Maker_," came out of him as he slowly withdrew without stopping, and as he pulled back almost to the very tip of himself he sank back in, slowly again. It was like stepping into a hot bath; painful, but in a satisfying sort of way, in a way that had his eyes watering and his muscles bunching up.

A slip of his hair had fallen in front of his eyes, curling with sweat. On the move back into her he let go of those hips and braced her backside against his thighs, his hands against the bed on either side of her waist to hold his torso up.

He leaned on her hands against him, used them to press her further into the bed on that slow drive into her, his hips taking over in some instinctual movement that wasn't practised, but didn't _need_ to be. She felt exquisite, and her voice was raw and keening, her hands clenching and legs trying to pull him back as he withdrew.

Restraint had long since been abandoned as he allowed himself to take the pleasure being offered, being explored, groaning low and deep at every descent and breathing like he'd been running. There was no way, no way in Thedas that he was going to last much longer even though it had barely began – he'd been too worked up to that pinnacle to even try to think about holding it back; he just hoped that she was feeling something similar to what he was too.

He leaned up just that little bit so her arse wasn't against his thighs, hips held aloft with his and it pressed her shoulders and back further into the bed, hips starting to slap together in a steady, delicious rhythm. With a lurid fascination he watched as his thrusts into her made her high, tight tits rotate, squeezed together as they were by her arms, holding him up somewhat by his abdomen.

But it was happening. He was going to come, there was no stopping it. So many nights on his own at the mercy of his thoughts of her, and finally having her underneath him, sobbing his name in a desperate chant as the force of his thrusts steadily increased, it was too much.

He would have said her name, something, _anything_ to let her know what was going to happen, but he was too mindless and lost to form the syllable in his mouth. There was nothing past how _good_ she felt, how he'd wanted her for so long, how _hot_ and _wet_ and _tight_ she was.

It was torture, in a sense, because Cullen had only ever felt something so intense once before, and the line between incredible pain and absolute pleasure seemed like both a thin veneer and the breadth of an ocean; they seemed the same and yet were so different that it was a wonder how he drew the parallel, the only true thing they had in common was the most important trait – that it left him so completely consumed with just sensation that nothing else mattered.

The spiral continued, spinning faster and faster as his thrusts got more erratic and jerky, arms shaking and the high-bred lilt of her voice saying his name was ringing in his ears. He'd since lost the rhythm he'd set as the first waves of a powerful orgasm turned his skin to ice, his fingers gripping the sheets and-

For one glorious moment-

\- The sight of her looking up at him through sooty lashes, mouth open in a pleasured O, gasping for air, and his mind exuded her name even if his lips couldn't form the words any more. _This is Constance, the woman I love. The woman I've __**always**__ loved._

And she was watching him lose himself in her with eyes that were too deep and knowing, too kind and so Maker-damned beautiful that the look alone did him in, coming _hard_ as he buried himself deep within her, his eyes squeezing shut because it was all so much, it was all _too_ much.

A harsh groan tore out of his open mouth as wave after wave of pure pleasure rippled through his body, his hands wringing the sheets to try to find something to anchor him while hips continued a few jerky, graceless but undeniably satisfying thrusts, prolonging the high for what felt like an age. His vision was shot white, muscles spasmed and tightened, there were all sorts of incoherent sounds tumbling out of his mouth, but nothing-

\- _nothing_ had ever felt so good.

He was spent, _utterly_. The position didn't allow for him to fall on top of her, luckily, but as his hips rested against hers, the throbbing gradually dissipating, diffusing through his body like so much steam in cold air, he found his body was struggling to hold himself over her, despite his strength.

So he rolled off her as best he could, gently moving her leg from around him, feeling bereft of being in her already. They were both breathless, and as his body started sinking into the mattress, he could see her run a wondering hand through her hair, messing up the fringe and gazing up at the ceiling with wide eyes.

"_Maker_, that was amazing," she half breathed, half moaned, and he snorted as a wide, self-satisfied grin spread across his face.

"Speak for yourself," he answered, his voice hoarse, and she chuckled lowly, plunging both hands into her silvery hair and stretching, arching like a cat and groaning when something in her back or leg gave a gratifying pop.

His body tingled in the aftermath, skin over-sensitive and cooling in the night air drifting in from the gaping hole in the ceiling.

Still fighting a little to catch her breath, she said; "We should have done this years ago," and turned onto her side, his arm going underneath where he neck met her shoulder to pull her into him. Constance moulded against the side of his body like the missing piece of a puzzle finally found, warm and so soft-

So incredibly soft.

It took some minutes before his breath slowed to something more normal, muscles tingling and relaxing as he sank deeper and deeper into the bed, and as he ran his thumb over the smooth curve of her shoulder and breathed-in the clean, sweet smell of her hair,; he asked, slightly terrified of the answer; "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Despite how incredible the sex felt to him, the idea of her pain gave him some cause to worry, and even though she voiced her pleasure he still had to be sure. Angling her head up to look at him, he looked down into her eyes as she answered, cheeks pink; "It hurt a little at the start, but I was able to heal it,"

"You cast a spell,"

Constance looked a little uncomfortable, embarrassed, "Yes. I hadn't considered... I did it without thinking, really. I was very nervous, I think that's why it hurt, although I may have been a little _overzealous_ with the spell,"

"Oh?"

"It was to relax the... muscles," she looked away, resting her head against his shoulder, "And after that I... _well_, I can't say I was entirely sure about what I was doing... this is the first time I have done anything like this,"

Cullen's hand stilled on her shoulder, his stomach doing a funny drop into his legs, but if he was honest with himself he wasn't really so surprised considering what Oghren and Leliana said, and with the type of personality Constance had and her position as the Commander of the Grey he supposed it came as no news that she was a virgin. He was mostly just amazed that she... chose to do it with him and not someone else.

Especially after what he presumed was a life of travelling and opportunities. Cullen wondered what made him so special, even though it felt a little nice to know he wasn't the only one unused to such sensations and emotions.

"... Nor have I," he said quietly, and he could feel her tense against his side.

"_Oh_," but she didn't say anything else, she simply wrapped her arm around his chest, tucking her fingers between his ribs and the bed, and the way she was holding him made an almost cloyingly sweet feeling of warmth spread from where her skin touched his.

They lay there in companionable silence for what seemed like hours, but it was likely to have been nothing more than a few minutes. He adjusted, briefly, so she fit more snugly against him and he looked down as he traced the dip of her waist with the flat of his fingers.

He hadn't given much thought to her pleasure, he'd simply assumed by her face that she was enjoying what he was doing... but knowing that, he was aware that he'd been so mindless with lust that he hadn't touched her as much as he wanted to, hadn't explored her with the time and care that he would have preferred.

And yet she lay in his arms, naked and warm after making love to him, after bringing him to arguably the most intense orgasm he'd ever experienced, and said nothing to the contrary.

With the tips of her fingers she traced circles around an old, faded scar on his breastbone from his time training to be a Templar, and he hummed in contentment as her hand and gently searching fingers smoothed down his stomach and across his ribs in endless figure-eights.

For the first time in what seemed like years, his mind felt quiet.

Those fingers rubbed up past his chest, up his neck, and she caught his eye as they travelled feather-light along his jaw, the slope of his chin, and his lips ticked as they traced over the curves and lines of them.

"... I used to have dreams just like this," she said after touching the line of his scar, the edge of her finger pulling up the skin slightly as if to assess the damage.

Rolling so the other side of her hip rested against his, she leaned up on her elbows, her hair mused and messy from where it was crushed against the bed, and he let his arm fall to the pillow as she continued with a smile, "Perhaps not _just_ like this; they were a little more innocent at the time, although it wasn't as though I hadn't occasionally indulged in the fantasy of something similar,"

He blushed, smirking at the idea of a young Constance getting hot under the collar when thinking of having sex with him.

"Hmm, you will have to tell me about them sometime," he chuckled, reaching with a hand to brush the hair from her face to admire her a little better. From his vantage point he could see the firm swell of her breasts pressed against the bed.

"They were not as exciting as you may be thinking," she said, "certainly not anything like this. I often wondered what was underneath all that heavy plating. I suppose now I have my answer,"

"And does the sight please you?" He asked teasingly, letting his eyes travel down past her smooth, milky shoulders, the bare points of her nipples pressed against the fabric of the sheets to the roundness of her backside beside his hip.

"Oh it more than pleases me,"

"As does the sight of you," he said lowly, only noticing the huskier tone his voice had taken when she flushed, her lips parting the tiniest amount. He felt himself stir, wondering if perhaps she...

And then she avoided his gaze, "I dreamt about you more than I care to admit... I used to dream that you would steal me away in the dead of night. That we would run away together, a Templar and a Mage, and travel Thedas looking for a safe haven."

It was almost comical to think of how the shock must have registered on his face. Had he not had the same if not similar thoughts about her when he was a Templar in the Circle? Had he not, in fact, wanted to escape with her before her Harrowing, even though he pushed the futile wish away in favour of obedience?

And she was saying she... wanted the same thing too?

Cullen's brows drew together in concern. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and brought her gaze back to him, "You sound sad. Do you still want that dream?"

She scoffed, "Of course not," and his heart sank with hurt, but she elaborated, "we would have been on the run for the rest of our lives, and where would you have gotten the Lyrium you needed? What if someone discovered my talents?"

True, it was a foolish thought he often indulged in when watching her study or practice her magic in the long evenings when he wasn't wondering how her mouth would feel on his, but regardless of how serious the connotations were that didn't mean it wasn't sweet, or something he truly wanted.

How would their lives had been if he had taken that chance?

"Besides," she continued, rolling onto the other hip again and moving into a more languid sitting position, exposing her chest completely and the casual way she did so had him struggling to focus on her face, his mouth starting to water, "do you think I would have let you take me away?"

That drew his eyes from the dusky pink of her nipples, "Would you have said no?"

The ease in her smile left him bemused, "I was much softer then than I am now. I'd been in the Circle since I was four years old; the Chantry didn't exactly make me feel like I was worth such things. When I had those thoughts, I told myself how terribly foolish I was being. You deserved better than me; a pretty wife and a life less complicated. I would have refused you for your own good,"

He sat up a little, reaching up to caress her face in a palm that looked large in comparison to her small features, "Con, what made you think I wanted something less complicated?"

She shook her head, "I mean; less complicated than someone cursed."

"You're _not_ cursed," he said, and perhaps some years ago he would have said a lot to the contrary, but years ago he'd seen Blood Magic do its absolute worst and it had been such a comfort to blame all Mages instead of facing the idea that they were just people and not monsters, and that his nightmare had passed, and that he had to move on.

"You misunderstand," she was calm, quiet, and she lightly kissed his mouth, "_then_ I would have felt such things. Growing up under the institution of the Chantry, although I believe that some of them meant well, they still made us feel wrong for wanting more, for wanting something carnal, or for wanting love. _This_," she gestured between them, "would never have been approved of. _Ever_."

"We're under the Chantry no longer," he said, seething a little.

That was evident enough by the fact that he'd refused to take Lyrium anymore. They wanted to pull on his leash like he was some sort of war-hound when Kirkwall fell and the Rebellion started, when he left their service in favour of the Inquisition, and he broke the chain by letting it go entirely.

They had no sway over him; the Knight-Commanders could no more deny him Lyrium if he wasn't even taking it, nor could they guilt him into their guerilla warfare under the guide of "_justice_" when he knew the Inquisition was actually looking for an end to the madness.

Cullen had his faith in the Maker and that was all he needed, not the squabbling mess the Chantry made of themselves or their ridiculous rules, not any longer.

And he supposed, just as he had forgone Lyrium, he'd also fallen in love with a Mage.

"No, we're not,"

The connotation that it carried, as well as the slightly heated look she was giving him made that stir return, and as she raked her eyes over his body it reminded him momentarily of their nakedness, and he found himself growing hard.

_Maker_ but he wanted her. _Again_.

"They told me it was wrong to want such things," she pushed lightly on his chest, pressing him back down against the bed, "that we were dangerous, and it was selfish to want to ruin someone's chances of happiness for our own desires."

Constance placed a palm against his chest and used it to lean on him as she slowly moved to straddle his hips. His sucked in a breath when the heat of her her warm, round arse rested over his rapidly hardening cock.

She continued; "But, looking at you now, I find myself caring less and less about what they told me. All I have ever done is push aside my own desires in favour of something greater. I have never dared to be selfish,"

His hands grabbed at her hips, pushing her down onto him in a slow, purposeful grind as he looked up, thinking about how years ago he'd dreamed of having her over him and how the fantasy was nothing compared to the reality, how the woman on him, hot and alive was so much better than he'd ever dreamed possible.

And how she was telling him that the sight of him was enough for her to disregard years of Chantry discipline.

"And this is your way of being selfish?" He asked, his upper lip curling at the rub of his cock against her.

But she didn't answer, possibly because the length of his cock had slipped between her folds and spread the gathering moisture there, and it made her back tense and a short gasp get cut off in her throat.

It felt _good_, it _still_ felt good, he thought as his hips jerkily rose up to her as the sensation of her heat and wetness pressed against him, although not nearly as frantic and desperate as the first time.

Now, without the all-consuming lust stealing his mind, he could focus his efforts elsewhere. Namely on the body of the woman he'd dreamed of for a decade.

Constance wasn't slim per-say; her hips were wide and her thighs were thick and powerful, possibly from years of travelling by foot and horse everywhere. The rest of her was somewhat solid and muscular, possibly because of battle and again, from travel. Although by the smooth slope of her shoulders, the tightness of her body and the roundness of her hips, she retained a very feminine shape despite the muscle, and he could still scarcely believe she was naked in front of him, bared to him _and_, he thought with some relish, _to him only_.

And he wasn't going to miss his opportunity to touch her again.

So Cullen touched her everywhere; he smoothed his hands up her thighs and around to squeeze the tempting handfuls of her arse (she giggled breathlessly and moaned as he drove himself up against her while he pulled her down by it), he held her waist while she moved her inexperienced hips in slow motions back and fourth over him, roving the pads of his thumbs over her ribcage as she arched, and as he sat up to crush her body to his with his hands on her shoulder-blades, he kissed her roughly because he realized he hadn't done so in too long.

And partly because, even though they'd had sex, he was nervous about touching her breasts, and he wanted to ask for some sort of permission.

She sort of acknowledged it with a look when he eased his hands up her ribs and held her gaze, her kiss-swollen mouth trembling and her hands tangling in his hair, messing it even worse than it was. Though as firm as they looked, they were perhaps the softest part of her as he moulded them with his fingers and palms, shuddering when she moaned lightly and her hips jerked against his.

He pressed them together, trapped her nipples between his fingers, leaned down to lick the flat of his tongue against them and listened to her breathless moaning turn into raw, high cries when he dared to kiss nipples previously pink and soft that were now hard, red and swollen, and the grind continued.

He thought about how he would never tire of hearing her like that, and wondered if he would be able to hold it together in her presence after seeing her come so undone when he looked up from her breast to see her head tilted back, and how utterly soaking wet she was as the grind turned a little hurried, a little frantic.

And _then_ he wondered if he would ever get used to that _burn_, as she reached between them, angling her hip back, grasping his cock in her hand and slowly sinking down onto him; the burn of entering her, wet and _so_, so _hot_ around him that he groaned the whole way through her descent, pressing his forehead into the juncture of her neck, the sensation nearly had him in the throes of another orgasm and she wasn't even half-way down. He hadn't expected... although judging by the way her hips were jerking, he supposed-

"_Con_," it came out as a choked syllable, because it would be so easy to just let go in the wake of such pleasure, and he'd wanted to wait-

"Lie back," she demanded, shaking, even though she was holding his shoulders with nails that were starting to dig into his flesh.

He'd wanted to take it slow, explore her, "But I-"

"_Please_,"

There was no way he could deny her if she said please; as he lay back his length twitched inside of her, kicking as the further he leaned back until his back was against the bed, the deeper she enveloped him until he was buried inside her right to the base. Cullen shuddered, panting, his hands instantly grasping her hips to stop himself from moving, from losing it completely.

Constance was shaking too, her hands rubbing paths up his stomach, his chest with appreciation. She looked down at him, a high, red blush on her cheeks and her top teeth digging into the flesh of her lower lip, hair ruffled from sex-

"You are so _beautiful_..." he breathed in wonderment, feeling a little awestruck by the sight of her, the woman he loved, naked in the candlelight and taking him to the very hilt.

And she faltered at that, releasing her lip from the assault of her teeth and gazing down, a thin film of what he prayed wasn't tears welling up in her eyes.

"Cullen..." but there was that _look_ again, like she didn't have the words to say what she was feeling, or that she simply couldn't say it. It was alright, he wasn't expecting some sort of confession, the fact of their position was enough for him to guess and as she leaned further back, he hissed as he went, if possible, even deeper into her.

He thought she would keep a slow pace, as that was how it started; a slow, sensual grind as she figured out how to move in a way that had them both moaning in toe-curling, dizzying pleasure, using her hands on his stomach as leverage to raise herself up and down, gliding wetly around his cock in a manner that had him _aching_ when she came up, and _moaning_ when she came down. Neither tension nor relief.

But not touching her left him bereft of the intimacy he craved and had been receiving when he was touching her body earlier, so he ignored her protests when he sat up and grasped her arse, pushing himself deep, _deep_ within her and holding her gaze, letting their torsos gradually press together and waited-

She wrapped her hands around his neck, her breath was warm, mouth open, skin flattened and foreheads touched, and he focused just on _breathing_.

He'd never felt so _close_, not to anyone.

"I... _I._.." she choked, her nose brushing his, eyes wet, whether from pleasure or something _else_, he didn't know.

So he just moved her with his hands, _up_ and _down_, taking the pleasure he wanted and briefly worrying, as that tight, spiralling feeling began in his belly, that he would come sooner than he wanted, but he didn't want her to focus on the emotion over the sensation, _not yet_.

Not when everything felt as good as it was.

That _arse_ was perfect, gorgeous and heavy in his hands, and it provided the best handles for him to grab on to and take her like he'd always dreamed of, as he increased the pace of their fucking, angling his hips up and he drove her down onto him and felt those big round cheeks flex as she leaned into a bow against him, trying to kiss him but being too mindless and breathless to do anything else but moan and gasp.

And she held his gaze as best she could; through the fast, rough pace he'd built up to he felt himself getting lost in her eyes, grunting and groaning and breathlessly bouncing her on him and enjoying the sensations of her tight, wet channel gripping around him, building him up until it quickly all became too much –_ too much-! _

He came quickly, gracelessly, and she moaned with him as she watched him orgasm through watering eyes fighting to stay open, and as he came down from the incredible high he lamented his total lack of stamina-

But he decided he wouldn't leave it without doing more. Cullen wanted to see her reach that edge, wanted to know her like that.

He slipped out of her easily, hoisting her up a little further so he had enough room to manoeuvre, and replaced fingers where he'd been so eager to put his cock and now was disappointingly out of energy.

Constance, previously softly kissing his neck as he came down from his orgasm, gasped and bucked in shock, fingers tightening around his shoulders.

"C-Cullen, you don't have to-"

"I want to,"

He'd thought her breasts were soft; he'd been sorely mistaken when he'd assumed them the softest part of her because the saturated folds under the pads of his fingers were so sensitive, so very delicate, and briefly he'd felt awful for being so rough without first knowing her with his fingers.

With his hand he mapped that soft place on her as best he could, parting folds with his fingers and rubbing as she rocked against his palm, moaning his name, encouraging him in her own way and stuttering out a "_C-C-C-Careful!_" or a "_Nnn-not so rough!_" whenever he got a little overzealous. He found a rhythm she seemed to enjoy; his fingers rubbing up towards that swollen part of her and then back, towards her ass, spreading the cocktail of _her_ and _him_ until it was dripping between from between her open legs onto his pelvis and thighs.

Any reservations or worries he had about touching her were starting to fall in the wayside of knowing what he was doing was making her feel good, and as he slipped an index finger into her to hear her choked cry and her fingernails driving into the skin of his shoulders, he found he could easily, quite happily keep going for as long as she wanted.

All day if she wanted.

The puckered, soaked muscle of her entrance pulsed and fluttered against his finger, the skin inside was hot, rippling, and he knew then why she felt so incredible around him if the inside was so... textured and interesting. Another finger joined his index, and he had to keep his opposite hand on her hip to keep her movements from becoming too frenzied.

Constance was moaning his name in between scratching at his shoulders and breathlessly, sloppily kissing his neck. He was sure, at once point, that she bit him when the fingers that were not inside her were just about grazing her outer folds, but he couldn't be sure past the haze of his determination to see her coming around his hand. When her body started growing rigid he knew she was near the edge, getting tighter around his fingers, the pulsing more erratic and by then his fingers were easily sliding in and out of her as she bucked against his hand, trying to impale herself further or increase the friction of the fingers rubbing outside.

_Oh __**yessss**_, his thoughts exuded when he felt her orgasm inside and out, her opening pulsing wildly against his fingers and her body jerking and shaking, his name on her lips a low chant as the feeling took her over. Her fingers, previously digging into his shoulders, started _freezing_ over his skin and he only barely caught the sound of a frost spell cracking in the air over her hoarse moaning. Without Lyrium, he could no more stop her spell than any normal man could, so he had to make a decision, and to him it was an easy one. Gritting his teeth against the minor pain her magic was inflicting, he continued to thrust his fingers into her wildly spasming opening, keeping her on that brink for as long as he could before her lags started trembling and she wriggled against him; "N-n-no more! _Please_,"

She slumped, exhausted, and he made sure to forever burn the image and sound of her _coming_ in his memory, murmuring an apology when she made a noise of protest when he slipped his fingers out of her and gathered her in his arms, burying his nose against her neck as their chests slowed, breathing returning to normal, falling back against the bed with a self-satisfied sigh.

Maker but they were a mess. Sweating, hair all over the place, hips and sheets slicked with come, so sated neither of them could _move_... he didn't think he'd change it for the world.

Their embrace was so warm, his body eased and sank into the sheets. She gently moved so he could coax the duvet out from underneath them and used one hand to drape it over them, the other holding her to him as he tucked them into a cocoon of blankets and warm skin.

"That was amazing..." she breathed, making his heart miss a few beats as pride quickly took him over.

"Yeah..." he answered, his face flushing. It was probably pretty pathetic that he found it so easy to come so quickly, especially when she was on him and all tight around him like that, but she didn't seem to be in the judging mood.

On the contrary, he watched with a smirk as she pressed her face into his shoulder and her breathing deepened over time, until he realized he'd been watching the steady rise and fall of the duvet for some time, perhaps longer than was absolutely necessary.

Cullen didn't want to sleep for a number of reasons. Firstly, he was aware that he had a tendency to scream and fight in his sleep and the last thing he wanted to disturb was her rest. Secondly, he was still fairly awake considering their activities. And thirdly, he knew that Wardens suffered from nightmares about the Darkspawn, and he wanted to be sure she was peaceful, if he could.

It was some time until sleep claimed him despite not wanting to, eyes drooping and his nose buried in her hair, in the hair of the woman he loved, but when he did, he was grateful that he didn't dream at all.

* * *

Usually Cullen woke at dawn with the sunlight streaming in from the hole in the roof. He would be up and to work well before most of Skyhold was starting to rise, and he admitted he liked the quite of the mornings.

But having a woman in his bed was not a usual occurrence for the Commander.

The twittering of birds, the steady echoes of hammering and clanging of swords and armour as the residents of Skhold went about their business drifted into his ears as he slowly woke, wondering what time it could possibly be. He couldn't feel his left arm at all, and with a particularly prideful smirk he realized it was because it was under Constance's neck-

Who was curled into his side, one of her arms haphazardly about his wait, one of her legs wrapped around his own.

And they were both... _naked_. He flushed in memory of the previous night.

Maker, what a _night_.

He wondered if anyone noticed that they'd left together, that he'd practically dragged her up the tavern stairs, or if perhaps they caught their furious kissing out on the battlements.

Not that the people of Skyhold weren't already talking about it, but still. He preferred his private life to stay that way; _private_.

From downstairs he heard a soft bark from Dogmeat, and then a brisk knock on one of the doors. Tutting and rolling his eyes, Cullen stirred as he made to get up. Constance mumbled something sleepily, drawing in a long breath through her nose.

"It's alright, go back to sleep," he soothed, running his good hand through her hair, "I'll see who it is,"

She hummed an affirmation, rolling onto her opposite side and dragging the blankets with her. It was so strange having another person, let alone _Constance Amell_ in his bed, certainly a situation he wasn't used to.

Naked. With _him_. _Maker_.

There was another knock, slightly more hurried, and Cullen grumbled in annoyance, sitting up and trying to shake out his dead arm, standing and lazily pulling on his breeches from the previous night.

His shoulders ached, and when he pressed his fingertips to map out the pain in them he realized they were covered in scratches and the ice-burns from Constance's magic - from when she'd orgasmed so hard she'd lost control.

… _Maker._

How many more times was he going to blaspheme before the Maker reached out his hand and slapped him?

It took him a while to figure out the ladder with unsure legs, smirking at the pile of strewn clothes on the floor of his office as he stepped off the bottom rung. Entirely too tired to get dressed, he simply held up the waistband of his breeches as he approached Dogmeat standing at attention at the left door to the battlements, reaching down with his free hand to scratch the dog's ears, and frowned angrily when there was another knock on the door.

_This had better be important_, he thought, when he closed his hand around the handle and pulled the door open partially, squinting as the sunlight assaulted his tired eyes.

The scout on the other side looked like he was ready to _die_; like he was seeing Andraste herself approaching him with an open hand because his death was coming swiftly for him, and Cullen realized with an angry snarl that it appeared to be the _very same scout_ who had interrupted him twice previously.

_And he was interrupting him again. _

The scout went white as a sheet, his body rigid as he took in the scratch marks and welts on Cullen's bare shoulders, on the wide bite-mark on the right side of his neck of his clearly pissed facial expression-

Of the very specific breastplate next to the Warden coat on the floor near the desk.

Mouth agape, the boy stuttered; "I f-found this outside your office, s-sir..." and thrust Cullen's furs at him, to which the Commander snatched out of his hand with a face that started reddening madly.

The scout then handed him a letter without another word, and as Cullen leaned against the door he glared down and growled at him, "Tell the remaining messengers, the Inquisitor's Advisors and the Captains that I am not to be disturbed for the remainder of the day, not unless it is an absolute emergency. Is that clear?"

The scout nodded furiously, and Cullen waited for him to pick his jaw up off the floor before the boy squeaked and managed to escape, wincing when the Commander slammed his door and pointedly bolted it shut.

Dogmeat whined until eventually Cullen figured out that he wanted to go outside and opened the front door leading to Solas's old study, then made his way back up the ladder.

Constance was on her front, sleepily gazing at him from under silvery lashes, and his mouth filled with water as he took in the sight of her bare back, messy bed-head, and the duvet only giving her backside the barest modicum of modesty.

He was glad he told the scout to pass that message around. Since joining the Inquisition, Cullen hadn't taken a single personal day-

And he wanted to spend the rest of the day getting to know Constance Amell a bit more _intimately_.

* * *

_Cullen, _

_I do hope you "trying your best" to visit us doesn't mean another two year absence, especially since the Inquisition has closed the hole in the sky. Surely now things have calmed down with the wars, demons and such that you can take a quick holiday to visit your ever-loving family? I won't accept any excuses this time. _

_That being said, we have heard a rumour that the Hero of Ferelden is in Skyhold, and Maker only knows what that kind of visit entails, especially if you are working with the Grey Wardens, so I suppose I understand when you say you are busy. I know that the Hero of Ferelden freed Kinloch Hold during the Blight, so I presume you have met her before? I'm not going to ask you to talk about it, don't worry. _

_Do you know her? Her visit to Skyhold has been all the Inquisition soldiers are speaking of, and there are so many in South Reach who admire her, myself included. It all sounds very exciting. _

_Do write back soon, Branson and Rosalie send their love. They miss their big brother. _

_Although they still love me more, _

_\- Mia_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Notes:** Sorry guys, I know this one is late again, and this one comes with some bad news as well as being a bit on the angsty side.

I've spent the week scrambling to get ready for a 2 week holiday in Malta and that meant finishing deadlines for work, so I barely had a moment to edit which is why this chapter is late. That also means I won't be updating again until another 2 weeks from now since I won't have access to my PC.

My humblest apologies. In a way it is good, because I am struggling to write the final chapter with, well, some form of _finality_ I suppose, so with this holiday I can really have a go at hashing it all out.

And can I just say, the kind words and encouragement from the last chapter have just been incredible. Really, I cannot thank everyone enough! I was very wary since it was so... _explicit_, but I'm glad it was so well received!

Anyway, I'm off for a very well-deserved and very long-time-coming holiday to Malta, so I will speak with you all again in 2 weeks!

* * *

It was alone, perusing positions at the War Table that Cullen noticed something with a jolt.

He'd been comparing reports of the last fledgling Red Templar sightings across Ferelden and Orlais, taking one of the small metal pieces from the table to put it back in the box with the others, when he became fascinated with his own gloved hand gently holding the piece signifying an army contingent between the tips of his fingers and thumb-

And his hand was perfectly, absolutely still.

He didn't know exactly when it happened; there was no sudden, jarring halt to the withdrawal symptoms after all. They came in waves that were sometimes long and endless, other times short but powerful – and he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt... _poorly_.

_A lucky reprieve_, he thought, _a reprieve lasting for quiet some time_. But still... the time between them – even if they weren't gone completely – was getting longer and longer. Even if the sweating, confusion, headaches, shaking or muscle pain returned, the break after they abated would be longer still. Each time they reared, they would have to come down at some point. The terribly empty hunger in him had lessened to the point where thinking about Lyrium only gave him a twinge of cravings, not the sickening, stomach-turning swoop it usually did.

When he started working for the Inquisition his pain had been endless, or so it seemed, but the fact that he couldn't remember the last time he suffered, _that_ was certainly something.

That wasn't to say there weren't some side-effects that lingered in him on a day-to-day basis. He still suffered incredible nightmares, and after he'd spent the day with Constance, he was not so lucky to escape them last night.

He woke up several times to her hand sleepily running through his hair, or shaking him awake only to soothe over the skin of his forearms or shoulder.

So he couldn't say the nightmares were particularly terrible either.

And, he supposed, he suffered from nightmares before withdrawing from Lyrium...

Was it the tea? That was a possibility, especially since he hadn't heard any concrete evidence to suggest that Ex-Templars were fully recovering from their addictions. He decided to ask Constance about it when he next got the chance, and they weren't... _concerned _with other topics.

Namely losing their clothes and getting lost in each other.

With a smirk, Cullen placed the piece into the leather-bound box at the end of the table and studied the map as he felt a strange, sinking feeling in his gut - not enough to take the smile from his face, but enough to be aware of it. During the war, he'd watched the pieces on that map fill the space so much until they could barely see what was underneath, only knowing the areas by sheer memory. Now, however, he noticed that every time he took a piece from the table and put it back in the leather-bound box, the less and less work he had to do.

It was a slow process, but it was happening, and even though there were no words to convey how overjoyed he was that Thedas was safe and the war was over, he feared _his _relevance was becoming less apparent.

He enjoyed the excitement and testing his tactical mastery even though in contrast he hated sending good men to their deaths, and he'd been so on edge during the whole ordeal and even for years before, that now that there was a time of peace he didn't know how to come down from the edge of the knife.

Peace was not exactly familiar territory.

There was a brief, timid knock on the door to the War Room before it was pushed open just enough to allow the person inside, and as Cullen looked up from the emptying map he saw Dorian partially hidden behind the door, bracing himself against it with his palm.

"The Inquisitor said I would find you here," the Mage said, "do you have a moment?"

"Of course," he replied, noting how he was having more and more moments to spare lately, "what can I do for you?"

Dorian stepped fully into the room but kept the door open with the toe of his boot, "I was wondering if perhaps you would accompany me for another game? I find I'm rather bored with the library at present,"

There was something to the Mage's face that gave him pause; though Dorian used the excuse of the library he got the feeling that there was more to his request than simple boredom, and it showed in the almost-vulnerable hopefulness of his face. He didn't just want to challenge Cullen to a game of chess, he looked like he wanted to _say _something, and the Commander allowed himself to worry that little bit when a bright smile flashed briefly in the Mage's face when he accepted his offer.

He locked the War Room up and made the short trip to the gardens with him; they set up the board and he watched as Dorian sat down with a sort of nervousness that the Commander certainly wasn't accustomed to seeing in the confident man. It was slight - to anyone else it wouldn't have registered at all but Cullen knew the Mage enough to see when something had changed.

And with the efficient, offhand way the Mage was playing chess - and winning, he noticed with disdain - it was clear there was something on the man's mind.

Dorian sighed as he, offhandedly again, out-manoeuvred him; "… I am going to miss this,"

Caught between irritated and marginally impressed, Cullen looked up, raising an inquisitive brow at the comment. The Mage looked forlorn, staring down at the pieces on the board but not really seeing them.

His dark-rimmed eyes looked up and he smiled crookedly, leaning back in the chair, "I will be leaving at the end of this week. The Bull and his Chargers will be heading towards Rivain; I've decided to tag along,"

He'd heard the spread of gossip that Iron Bull had somehow convinced Dorian into his chambers, and that they had developed some sort of relationship out of it. Personally, Cullen liked Iron Bull and knew him past the meat-head front he often put up, enough to know that Bull was a lot smarter and a lot more manipulative than he let on (in the best possible way, if there was indeed one). He also knew Dorian past the pomp and finery – knew that he'd left Tevinter with nothing but his clothes and a few favours to eke out a life abroad after a pampered upbringing in a powerful family of Mages; and such a decision must have taken incredible courage and will, something which he couldn't help but feel compassion towards, especially given his own circumstances and decisions.

And now Dorian was going to follow the Qunari and his Chargers. He didn't think it went so deep.

"You're sticking with Bull?" He asked, trying to salvage his front-line as best he could before Dorian made his next move.

Stroking his chin, the Mage barely even looked at the board before reaching forward and taking Cullen's rook with a pawn he hadn't been able to intercept, "For a time. Once we arrive in Rivain, I plan to travel across Antiva and back into Tevinter," the man leaned back again, and the lack of his arrogant self-approval was actually starting to put Cullen off, "after seeing what happened at the Temple of Mythal, I can't keep running away from the glaring problems present in my homeland."

The Commander wasn't exactly convinced, "You wish to change it then? What makes you think you can?"

Considering how rife Blood Magic and demon summoning was in Tevinter, Cullen didn't exactly have faith in Dorian changing much. A powerful Mage though he was, he was just one against the means of many, just as cunning and corrupted as they were in Orlais – in knowing that, what was he going to do once he got there? Did he have the sort of connections that his countrymen did?

"If I don't, who will?" He said, looking up with hard eyes, "The self-congratulatory arrogance of the Magisterium overthrowing the Elves is built upon lies, and somewhere underneath all of that pomp is the truth. I am not the only one in Tevinter who feels this corruption has to stop, that bathing our lives, our history and our houses in blood grasping for power is the only way forward, and I will not be the last. I _need_ to go."

There was a way for Cullen to win, but as he reached forward he found his hand stilling instead of moving his queen, regarding what Dorian was saying critically.

It was a worthy cause. An _incredible_ cause, impossible perhaps, but no matter what happened to Dorian in the future he would always be able to stand by his decisions and convictions when he spoke of it the way he did. And that meant he was leaving.

Dorian was leaving, and so was Bull. Leliana's inauguration loomed ever closer, Cassandra wished to rebuild the Seekers. Blackwall was a Warden recruit, Solas was missing. Now that Corypheus was defeated, he doubted Varric would stay for much longer, and the same could be said for Vivienne if Morrigan was giving up her position as Arcane Advisor to the Orlesian court.

As far as Cole and Sera were concerned, he supposed their respective duties as a spirit of Compassion and a member of Red Jenny would take them elsewhere.

Everyone was leaving.

Cullen pulled his hand back, resting his arms on the rests of the chair and sighing, looking at the board in the same way the Mage did; looking but not really seeing the pieces.

He couldn't say he blamed any of them; they had all formed under the Inquisition banners for more or less the same reason – the Breach in the sky, and now that it was no longer a threat it made sense that they would want to move on from the war, back to their former lives or on to something more worthy. But it begged the question – what did _he_ want?

Since leaving the Templars, he wasn't used to having so many possibilities. Staying with the Inquisition was a good calling, to be sure, but was that really what he wanted?

_No_, a small, far away voice said in the back of his mind, even though he felt awful for thinking it. He owed much to the Inquisition... and then on the other hand, they also owed him.

The idea of so many of the Inquisition's inner circle leaving gave him an urgent feeling that he couldn't really place. He felt like he would have to make a decision soon, even though in reality there was nothing holding him back nor was there anything pushing him forward. Perhaps it was the fact that nothing _was_ pushing him forward that made his heart start to race; he'd always been able to dedicate himself to a cause-

And the Inquisition's stance was so uncertain now that the Breach was closed for good...

And what of Constance? What was she going to do? The Wardens wouldn't be able to operate out of Skyhold forever...

"I wanted to be sure we had one more game before I left," Dorian said, smiling albeit a little sadly, "sounds foolish I suppose..."

"Not at all," Cullen assured, and decided instead to not take that knight with his queen, which would leave Dorian open, messing about with a pawn instead. He would let the Mage have the last laugh if it meant it was going to be their last game. _Possibly forever_.

He threw the game and Dorian knew it by the way his lips quirked at the edges, by the way he leaned forward and rested his chin in his palm and tilted his head, saying quietly; "You've changed,"

Cullen would have bristled had he not been agreeing ever so slightly with the Mage – would have argued that the recent events would easily change even the most hardened man and even blame it on the Breach, on the Inquisition, on the circumstance and it was all partly true, but there was also _more_.

He knew that, over the course of time spent in service, he'd undergone some rather drastic changes in personality, especially considering that just a few short years ago he would have been adamant that Mages should be locked away and yet now he was sharing his bed with one.

"I _mean_ that," Dorian continued when Cullen looked down at his gloves, "it's hard not to notice how much... _happier_ you seem. I suppose many of us could say the same – an ancient Magister threatening the world has been defeated and the giant hole in the sky pissing out demons has been closed – that would give anyone cause for happiness. But where you are concerned, I cannot help but think it is because of-" he pointedly looked over Cullen's shoulder to the other end of the gardens, "- _something else_,"

As he turned to follow Dorian's line of sight, he could see Constance on the other end of the garden approaching them, Dogmeat at her heels – only to be pulled aside by Mother Giselle when she caught his eye.

The flush started in his cheeks and spread until his ears and chest were hot and irritated. Perhaps _that_ was the change Dorian was referring to. He thought that, since sharing his bed with her, that his intense desire for her would abate somewhat, especially considering they spent an entire day in each other's sexual company, but it seemed his hunger for her was not so easily quelled.

There was a mindset that existed among many men that suggested their masculinity was in question depending on their age and virginity, and Cullen was not so vain to think that something had changed in him just because he spent some breathless moments with a beautiful woman, but he supposed his demeanour towards Constance had changed somewhat regarding what they shared.

Possibly because he knew what she looked like naked, panting, _coming _in front of him, the sight so wresting and beautiful it nearly brought him to tears.

Possibly, and more likely, because he'd opened up to her in a way that he never had with anyone else, least of all a Mage, in a way that was so terribly _vulnerable_ that it was almost a little frightening and more than a little exciting. He hadn't trusted anyone in so long, but he would stake his life on her and she'd never given him a reason not to.

"_Fasta vass_," Dorian swore under his breath, "if you mentally undress her for much longer I'm going to start feeling like I'm intruding on something,"

Cullen glowered.

They spent the previous day wrapped in each other, so he supposed he could picture, quite clearly, what she looked like under that heavy coat. They pushed aside the need for an orgasm in favour of a long, slow rolling of hips, deep breathing and soft kissing, and it helped him grow used to what the first time seemed like an onslaught of sensation and incredible pleasure that he was quickly overloaded with.

He still came sooner than she, but that granted him the mind to fully explore her in other ways. He committed her body almost to memory, as he studiously ignored the idea that life in Skyhold continued around them, or that his presence was needed.

Perhaps it was even _that_ fact that Dorian was referring to, that he'd changed to the point that even his work for the Inquisition could be pushed aside briefly to focus his attentions elsewhere, when he was previously so dedicated it was a wonder he got any sleep.

The Mage made his move and Cullen realized that he'd taken the opening offered, and smiled. If it was their final game together then he wanted Dorian to be able to walk away with his head held high, even if he knew that the Commander granted him that boon, and he wondered then; was he happy because Cullen offered the victory, or because he thought he took the victory for himself?

It was an interesting question.

"Are you going to follow her?" Dorian asked, as he leaned back and waited for Cullen to make his next move.

Shrugging, he replied; "I'm not sure what you mean. What do you mean 'follow her'?"

"Are you going to join the Wardens or are you going to stay here?"

Baulking, he immediately opened his mouth to say that _of course_ he was staying in Skyhold. He was the Commander of their forces, and had been since the Inquisition's conception, he'd personally trained a great number of their recruits and knew the military workings of the vastness of Orlais and Ferelden like the back of his hand – he wasn't about to just abandon them after everything that's happened-

… _But_... but a little voice in the back of his mind whispered; _she will not stay with you_.

And it chilled him to the core. He would _have_ to make a decision soon.

"... I'm not sure. I hadn't given it much thought until recently..."

"It's something to consider, at least," Dorian smirked, "their armour is certainly _very stylish_. I think you'd look rather fetching in the Blue-"

"Maker's Breath," he exasperated when he found himself picturing how it would look and feel to don the Warden crest, "can we _please_ speak of something else?"

He already discarded one Order, he would be a fool to pursue another...

… But their cause was a righteous one. And Constance was a good woman - a noble, steadfast soul.

"My Dear Warden Commander," Dorian drawled as Constance, having finally shaken off Mother Giselle, approached their table, "to what do we owe the pleasure?"

It took a great deal of effort to resist rolling his eyes at Dorian's over-the-top efforts of flirtation.

"Actually, I have something for you," she replied as though she hadn't heard his tone, "I recall our conversation some weeks ago about Brother Genitivi and his autobiography. So few copies still exist containing the excerpt you mentioned, so I sent him a request for one. I have the scroll here, if you would have it,"

His dark-rimmed eyes widened, "You... wrote to Genitivi to ask him for an excerpt of his autobiography _for me_?"

She pressed the scroll into his palms, "I remain on good terms with him – I find he is a plethora of knowledge where mine often falls short. The topic came up in our correspondence, so I asked if he would be willing to part with it. He grew particularly excited at the idea that it was for someone from Tevinter."

"_Naturally_,"

That time, Cullen actually did roll his eyes. _Maker_ but Dorian did prance around like an exotic peacock when his homeland was mentioned.

As the Tevinter excitedly unfurled the scroll, their game momentarily forgotten, Constance let her gaze drift to him and he watched as her cheekbones turned a particularly fetching shade of pink, and he was blushing equally as much. He wondered if he would ever be used to the idea that she'd seen him naked, or that she'd seen him so _undone_, and he wondered if she was feeling something similar to the embarrassment that he was.

To have been so vulnerable and lustful, and then to see the same person with their clothes on the next day was a _little_ jarring. Especially when he could feel the rising hunger for her to be naked under him again.

_Maker_ would he _ever_ not want her...? "How are you feeling?" He found himself asking her, wondering if she too wanted, if she was not too exhausted...

She smiled, looking away, "I am quite well," she put the emphasis on _quite_, "my research continues, although I am glad of this moment of reprieve. I feel as though I have been waiting on this reply from Weisshaupt for an age; it is nice to take my mind off it for a moment,"

_If you need to think of other things_, his mind instantly exuded in a lustful haze, _I can provide a distraction_. Shaking his head, Cullen pushed the all-too-tempting thought away. The evening would come, eventually.

"And you?" She asked, linking her arms behind her back.

"I can't complain," he said, smirking, "although I believe you may have commandeered Dorian's interest from what was supposed to be our last game,"

Dorian snorted, "Ignore him, my dear. He's just sore that he's losing,"

Cullen smartly kept his mouth shut, knowing there was no real way to prove that he threw the previous move, and because he didn't need to prove himself to Constance over a game of _chess_.

"Perhaps once we're finished, you would care for a game?" He suggested to her, leaning back as Dorian continued to focus his attentions on the scroll in his hands.

Her blue eyes roved over the pieces, taking in their positions in a brief moment of calculation, "Perhaps not, I would not want to beat you too readily,"

"Is that a threat?" He rose his brow at her.

"Hardly," she smirked, in a rare moment of cockiness, "it is more of a promise,"

"Oh _get a room_, you two," the Tevinter Mage sighed, rolling the scroll back up and tucking it into the breast of his robes, "I fear if I stay here any longer I'll become entangled in whatever strange version of foreplay you have going here,"

As Cullen blushed and stuttered, Constance muttered in aside to him; "You would only be so lucky," to which Dorian barked out a laugh so loud that it shook some of the Chantry Sisters from their conversations or prayers.

But despite the brief moment of familiarity, the swell of what felt like _belonging_ in the bottom of his chest, he knew that it was all for nothing. Dorian would be gone by the end of the week, and so would Bull, and it was only a matter of time before others followed suit.

That feeling left him hollow, and as shameful as it was to admit, he felt a little scared as well. Scared that, at some point and even depending on Constance's dealings with the Wardens in Weisshaupt, she would leave too - with or without him.

Would he stay? Would he do as Dorian suggested, and join her cause? There were so many unknown factors, and Cullen hated making a move without knowing first where all the pieces on the board were. It was a trait that made him an excellent Commander, but when it came to more personal affairs he found he was often stuck between rocks and hard places more often than he would bother to count. The Templars. Lyrium. Even his first tentative letters to Constance.

When Cole appeared out of the air near them, Dorian jumped and swore so badly that one of the Chantry Sisters hissed at him to shush.

The be-hatted boy swiftly approached Constance and grabbed her hand, and Cullen narrowed his eyes at the urgency in his voice, "Your Friend has returned. If you make your way to the courtyard now, you can see her again,"

As seemed to be the usual with Cole, he watched with vague interest as Constance got a glassy, far-away look in her eyes, looking _past_ the boy grasping her hand and into the air.

"... Has she been here long?" Constance eventually asked with a slurred voice, after a pause, but continued to stare past him.

"No, she is very tired, but she wants to see you more than she wants to rest,"

"_Thank you_,"

And with that. The woman eerily stepped away from the table and walked out of the gardens, back into the main hall. Cullen felt a shiver race down his back as his mind turned over the unnatural idea of what Cole was doing, but tried to remind himself that there was no malice in him, and whatever he said was for her benefit in some manner.

Until Cole started speaking, his hands coming up to hold his chin, his voice taking on a familiar, well-bred lilt; "_Too long. It's been too long. Ten years is too long. A son, Maker she has a son, __**they**__ have a son. I hope she doesn't hate me like he does, those yellow eyes blaming me even if they suggested it, all to save my worthless life, such a cost it couldn't have been worth all the pain – Maker what have I __**done**__-?!_"

"_Cole_!" He snapped, cutting the boy off mid sentence, "_Enough_!"

The spirit jumped, dropping his decidedly spot-on impression of the Warden Commander, "You don't want me spouting her secrets," he said, "you know she keeps them to keep her safe,"

With a grimace, Cullen nodded as he considered what the boy had said, "I... _suppose_,"

Dorian's face fell, "Uh-oh, this doesn't sound very good. Perhaps you would like to postpone our game for another evening?"

"There would be no point," Cole interjected, "she will be speaking to Morrigan now, she will be for the next few hours," he turned to Cullen, pale eyes peering from underneath the brim of his hat, "she tries not to cry but sometimes the effort is too much. She will want to speak with you later, she hopes you won't notice the redness in her eyes, but then she hopes you will,"

And with that, the boy disappeared as if he'd never even been there in the first place, and Cullen had to fight through the daze and the fog to even remember what he just said. What... was he on about?

Morrigan had returned; was that why Cole sought her out? And all that nonsense he spouted, frightened-sounding thoughts he must have plucked from Constance's mind, what was that about?

"We can leave it here if you wish," Dorian said, scratching his chin, "I can understand if you want to join her. That was all rather morbid,"

As the fog lifted from his thoughts, letting the memory of what Cole said unfurl properly without struggling to catch it like sand slipping through his fingers, Cullen shook his head, the breeze picking up and ruffling furs, snaking in coldly underneath armour and leather, "No, it's fine. I won't disturb them and she will tell me when she is ready,"

At least... according to Cole she would.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Notes:** I HAVE RETURNED

IF IT WASN'T OBVIOUS

Here is the latest chapter, and it is angsty as FUCK just to warn you. In reference to this chapter, check out my Alistair/Morrigan prompt that I wrote a few days ago for a little more outsider information. (on my tumblr of the same name)

And thanks everyone for being so patient with me on this fic.

* * *

With reluctantly sad smiles, Cullen and Dorian ended their game as Dorian quietly declared checkmate, knowing the victory was one spared and not really won, but offered, and parted with heavy hearts.

As Cullen made his way across the barracks and back to his office, he hoped, in the bottom of his chest, that he would at least be able to see the Mage and the Chargers off before they left for Rivain. Even knowing that they weren't all so close that it truly warranted him to feel the way he did, war had a way of bringing people together, and he would be lying if he said he wouldn't miss them. Dorian never had that awkwardness around Templars because he never felt threatened by them, and despite what that insinuated – that he was a powerful Tevinter Mage – it actually helped endear him to the Commander somewhat.

Because Dorian made it known that he wanted to spend time with Cullen, regardless of his status as an Ex-Templar, and he could not say the same for every Mage in Skyhold, so much so that there were times when the word _Mage_ was not one he generally associated with Dorian, nor did he really think _Ex-Templar_ or indeed _Commander_ was one he associated with Cullen.

And to lose that unspoken comfort, that closeness that wasn't so close; was upsetting, was empty.

And Cullen started feeling, what he hadn't really felt since he was a boy trying to get used to living in the Abbey, _lonely_.

Bereft. Empty. Isolated.

Despite the memory of waking up that very morning wrapped around the woman he loved, knowing she was somewhere secret, speaking with someone about something that he was no part of, added to that empty feeling. And he missed his _home_.

He held a hand up to his chest, as he stepped into his office and leaned back against the door until it clicked shut. That dull, heavy ache settled quite firmly in the end of his chest, and briefly he wondered if the weepyness usually associated with Lyrium withdrawal was what caused him to feel such a pain, but that somehow didn't fit. Her desk was there, and the sight of her effects and research helped somewhat but it didn't take away from the fact that he-

He wanted to go back. Back to Honnleath.

Which was preposterous, and impossible. The land the Rutherfords owned was destroyed by the Blight, the modest house and wide, balmy fields were gone now, and he knew that. His parents had been put to rest in small graves with the rest of the victims of the Darkspawn there, so there was no _going back_.

Honnleath wasn't gone, but his family home was. His sister had fled the Blight with their siblings, dragging them away to South Reach which thankfully received only the small tail end of the Darkspawn horde, and there they made a new life, one which his sister insisted that he was a part of but Cullen wasn't so sure. Approaching his desk, he sifted through the papers and scrolls there until he found the last letter he received from Mia, demanding that he visit soon and Cullen was struck with very much wanting to make good on her request.

Maker but it had been a very long time since he'd seen any of them. He wondered if they ever thought about their old home, too.

He wondered what Branson and Rosalie looked like – they were adults now but he hadn't seen them since they were children. The Chantry allowed his mother and Mia to visit him, _once_, one Wintersend and he was in his late teens at the time. He'd barely even recognised Mia, a woman by all accounts and shorter than him for the first time in his life. He thought, almost a foot taller than her and still growing, as he loomed over her, that he'd finally bested her in something.

Intelligent, forthright Mia was always the one that kept them on the straight and narrow, kept Cullen from strangling Branson in his sleep and kept Rosalie from putting worms in their boots whenever they annoyed her, kept them from running off any time they had to make a trip into the town.

Smiling and sitting down, he could still remember the idiocy and bravery of children as he recalled the tree-climbing, the hot summers jumping into the lake without watching out for rocks, his father's exasperation at his _four_ unruly children killing each other one minute and being best friends the next.

Sweet little Rosalie was a woman now, there were only a bare few years in the difference between them all, and Branson was a man, though he could scarcely imagine it. Were any of them married? He somehow doubted Mia was; for one she never suggested she was, and she wasn't the sort of person – even as a child – to let anyone tie her down. That didn't suggest otherwise, but...

How very little he knew of them, and even though they never outright told him through their letters, he never sought to ask. Yet the letters continued...

Because they were his _family_. Because, Mia insisted, they _loved_ him. They wanted to see him, even though he'd neglected them for _years_.

Cullen wanted very much to see them then, as he looked down at the letter, perhaps not so much sick for his home but for the family he left there in pursuit of something he didn't even have anymore. They were happy he'd left the Templars to work for something greater, but wasn't there a small part of them that was annoyed at the very thing he left them for was his history, not his present? Surely they must be disappointed-

Even though all they have ever said is the latter.

How much of what he was feeling was his withdrawal and how much was his truth? It was so difficult sometimes, he thought as he put the letter down and sat back, smoothing his hand down his face, so difficult to separate the mood swings from the things he really, truly felt, especially as he'd just been contemplating how incredible he felt for the first time in what felt like years. He was sure some of it was true, was sure some part of him really wanted to see his family again especially now that everything had calmed down and the war was over, but the fear of them not accepting him, or being angry...

How much was his own paranoia and sense of self, and how much of it was real?

The front door creaked open slightly, and he looked over the edge of the desk as two pointed ears appeared through the doorway; he could hear the soft tapping of paws and nails against the stone floor. Dogmeat shuffled his way over to him and plunked his backside down beside the chair, taking a moment to huff before resting his head against Cullen's thigh.

"Did she tell you to come up here, boy?" He asked, cupping the dog's ear and giving it a good scratch. The dog huffed again in acknowledgement.

He would visit them. He _would_. And _soon_. With the end of the war they deserved at least that much, and he'd spent entirely too long away from them. Even though he was unsure of where he was heading as far as the Inquisition was concerned, of _that_ he was sure of.

While he spent the rest of the day working, with Dogmeat happily taking whatever affection he offered by his side, Cullen waited for Constance to come back from her talk with a bracing feeling. Cole suggested she would be upset and he was expecting as much, and he wanted to be ready for her if she needed him.

He vaguely remembered her reply when he first wrote to her on Morrigan's behalf, and shuffled through the drawer on his desk until he found it. Perhaps it would help him better understand - __Morrigan saved my life, saved the lives of all of us during the Fifth Blight, sacrificed a great deal so that I could live and it both saddens me and eases me a great deal to know that she is safe and well. I cannot believe that she has a child, I am so torn between feeling so terribly sad and happy for her that I am unsure how to feel.__

But all of that, honestly, was not enough information. There were too many _hows_ and _whys_ and _whats, _and Cullen hated not having all the pieces on the board.

So he waited. And waited._ And waited_. And it seemed, as the candles burned into their holders and he could already hear the midnight rotation of the guard outside of his office, that she would not be back.

Not until she entered wearily through the front door just as he was pushing aside his missives for the day, and he sucked in a breath.

Constance leaned back against the door until it clicked shut much in the way that he did when he entered the office, her head down, most of her hair obscuring her face-

"Con," he started quietly, coming out from around his desk, "are you alright?"

… _she tries not to cry but sometimes the effort is too much. She will want to speak with you later, she hopes you won't notice the redness in her eyes, but then she hopes you will..._

Obviously trying to hide back the sniffle by pushing her hair back from her face with a hand, Con straightened up off the door and nodded, "Oh, I'm fine. I'm... _sorry_. It has just been such a long time, and I wasn't expecting... Don't worry about me,"

Her face was red, eyes puffy and bloodshot; he couldn't really imagine her crying in front of the sneering, overly-serious Mage and actually receiving any sort of comfort, so he did worry despite her supplication. Cullen approached and gently held her chin in his left hand – she held on to his arm.

"Are you sure?" He asked, concerned, "You can talk to me, if you want,"

Cole said that she would want him to ask, but he also didn't want to press her. If she wanted to speak of it, she would, and if she wanted to change the subject then he would drop it.

"I'm fine, really," she insisted, swallowing and looking up with clearing eyes, "I do not wish to speak of it now, if you don't mind-"

"Of course I don't. But I'm here, if you wish me to be,"

"Thank you, Cullen," she sighed as he dropped his hand from her face, and she reached back to grasp the handle of the door, "I wished to say goodnight to you, but it is terribly late, and I fear I must return to my quarters,"

"Oh? You're not staying?"

Her cheeks turned pink as she looked away, "Ah... do you wish for me to stay?"

"I simply assumed, since-"

"Of course I will stay, if you want me to,"

"We don't have to-"

"But I-I want to..." she bit her lip, the redness in her face deepening further, "I want to. To _stay_. And... _um_,"

He waited for her to finish, but she trailed off, grimacing. He had though she was too upset, too distraught to... but if she wanted to, and Maker he'd been thinking of her all day...

"Is it alright for me to stay," she asked, "with _you_?"

Cullen found himself chuckling, "Of course it is. I would prefer if you used this as your quarters, if you would forgive me saying so. Maker knows I would rather share my bed with you than sleep alone,"

"I would rather not be alone tonight either," she said, and he found himself wrapping his arms around her waist and dragging her into a soft embrace.

It wasn't long before he was locking the doors and pulling himself up into the bedroom beyond the ladder, not long before they were undressing each other and falling into bed together again, although it was soft, just as it was the day after the first time. Long, slow rolling of hips; though the orgasm was pursued it wasn't needed as much as he needed the feeling of her skin pressed to his or the sound of her breathless sighs in his ear were needed.

And when it was over, they lay side by side, on their stomachs and spoke of whatever came to mind. Since his family had been at the forefront of his thoughts for most of the day, they mostly spoke of his siblings, the memories of his parents, and his recent letters to Mia.

He admitted to her, rather sadly, that he wished he knew more of them, that he wished he'd asked more questions and hoped that they didn't think him uninterested, or callous. He was simply _busy_, though a poor excuse that was.

And as he watched her listen to him recount the time he'd jumped into the lake just to escape Branson and Rosalie's taunting, he wondered what they would think of her. There was no doubt in his mind that they would see the beauty in her that he saw; the softness of her hair, her smoothly perfect skin, her pink little mouth and elegant brow, and those eyes that you could get completely lost in forever...

But she was a _Mage_, and despite the Inquisition ending the rebellion, the civilians of Ferelden weren't just going to throw away years of misinformation and superstition in a few short years. And he _had_ been a Templar; even though there was nothing holding them apart any more he wondered how his siblings would really feel about it.

… Cullen hoped they would like her, if they ever met her. He _wanted_ them to meet her.

"I don't know much about my family," she answered when he asked about hers, wincing when he realised he'd been talking about himself for the better part of an hour, "sometimes I think I can remember how my mother looked, but I'm not so sure..."

"I know I'm related to the Hawkes," she continued, "and I know that Bethany, the last surviving sibling of Leandra's children, left Kirkwall some time ago. I had wished to get into contact with her after the death of her brother, but I haven't had any luck yet."

Cullen leaned up onto his elbows, brushing his hair back, "We can help you with that, if you like. Varric tells me that Aveline Vallen took her out of the city, and she's not a difficult woman to track,"

"Hmm, perhaps. I would like to at least offer my condolences..."

Con turned a little, resting on her side, and he watched her in the silence as she got a glassy, far-away look to her eyes, as though she were picturing what it would be like to have a family, no matter how removed. It only really struck him then that she had no mother, no mention of her father or siblings, and he was probably the closest thing she had to... well, anything that went beyond the term _friend_.

Her expression darkened a little as she looked down at the threading in the blankets beneath her, and took some time to eventually open her mouth to say something, something he wasn't sure, even after all of his curiosity, that he really wanted to hear.

"... Alistair is... is Kieran's father,"

It took some time for him to swallow the information given, time for him to connect the loose threads in his thoughts and tie them all together. At first, he could scarcely remember who Kieran was, until he remembered being introduced to him as Morrgian's son, and that meant that if he was also _Alistair's_ son... that-

"They had Kieran to save _me_," she said quietly, and he watched her face start to crumple, her eyes grow wet and slick with tears, and it wasn't long before she'd curled into herself, sobbing, and he could do was reach out to try and untangle her from her own arms and legs until eventually he just pulled her awkwardly into him.

He didn't understand, people didn't have children to "save" each other; "To... save you? Con, that's not possible-"

"It _is_," she insisted, muffled against his chest, "it was magic... a-a ritual. All to save me. They wanted to help and I... I couldn't stop them, I didn't _want_ to die,"

_Blood Magic_, his mind instantly spat, but it was tempered somewhat by the woman he loved weeping against his chest. It would come as no surprise to him if she turned around and said that the "ritual", whatever it was, that he was presuming Morrigan performed was indeed Blood Magic. He knew the woman practised forbidden magic even though he had no proof.

But... but, the "ritual" had produced Kieran, Alistair and Morrigan's son, and it had saved Constance. From _what_, he didn't know, he wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to know, but either way Constance was alive because of whatever they had done.

And they had just been speaking of _family_.

That was why Alistair had asked him so many questions about the Witch; that was why Constance seemed so close to both of them, because she felt guilty that such a thing had to happen in exchange for her life, perhaps that was even why Leliana spoke of Morrigan with such distaste and distrust.

Constance wrote that she'd never met a more intelligent, loving person in her life before she met Morrigan; was Kieran perhaps the reason for that?

And they had just been speaking of _family _like it was some sweet, normal thing, like she hadn't just been crying with Morrigan over what he was supposing was her guilt, and the woman's reassurance. And what of Alistair? Maker if he didn't put his foot in it.

He soothed his hand through her hair and wondered; how many people in Thedas ever saw the Hero of Ferelden sobbing? The woman was their bulwark against the Darkspawn, their knight in shining armour, and yet she was curled up against him and crying because her friends had chosen to save her life; did the people even know that their heroes were just people who had hang-ups of their own? Did she ever let herself break in front of them, or did she keep on that facade of command that he saw on her every day?

"If it makes any difference," he started, as her crying had died down to some pathetic sounding sniffling, "I'm glad they did, and I'm sure there are a lot of people who could say the same,"

"Wha...?" She looked up from where her head had been between his arm and chest, "But... but you _must_ know that what they've done... the ritual-"

"I _know_," and it hit him then that she'd been afraid of what he thought, "and I don't care. You're alive; _that_ is what matters to me,"

It was his honest truth. Even though the idea of Morrigan's ritual chilled him to the core, Constance was alive because of her and Alistair. Seeing the witch with her son, seeing how perfectly gentle and normal the boy was, and how quietly _proud_ his mother was in turn – it couldn't have been so bad and terrible even if circumstances dictated it to be so.

Another wave of tears started filling up in her eyes, her nose had turned red; "Maker, but the bloody Well, and-and her mother in the Fade... and Alistair is so _kind_; to have done this to him, I-"

"Was it not his choice?"

"Well, _yes_, but it is all such a _mess_. I wish I could take it all back, _I wish it were different_,"

He was reminded of the way children refused their parents wishes in the way she spoke and the weeping began anew, and as he pulled her back against him and soothed down her back, he whispered that he _didn't_ wish that; that he was glad her friends made that choice because without it, she wouldn't be with him, and how he would never change a thing.

The curiosity and even some of the isolation that he'd felt surrounding the circumstances with Morrigan, Alistair and Leliana drained out of him in the wake of caring for her, and though he felt awful on her behalf he was glad he was able to be there for her, in his own way, glad she was opening up to him the way she was.

Had she simply returned to her quarters earlier, would she be curled up in her bed crying miserably and would he be sitting on his own, ignorant to her turmoil? She spoke little of herself; she was vague and preferred to speak of others, but now she was pouring her fears out to him like so much wretchedness draining out of her, and he thought about how he preferred it to the idea of being ignorant about it entirely.

It made him hold her that much tighter, _because she trusted him_.

Never mind nakedness, or sex, this was the sort of openness between lovers that was _truly_ intimate, and it left him reeling because it was scary how much he knew then that he needed to feel _needed_ by her. Scary because who has truly seen such a powerful woman break?

Other than him?

Cullen wanted to be there for her, wanted to soothe the ache, somehow take it away, but he didn't know how. All he could do was reassure her until her sobs died down, thinking on how a short time ago they were making love, and now she was cracking apart at the seams of herself, and how the two were so far removed from each other that it was a wonder they existed in the same time-frame.

"I'm sorry," she choked out after some time, furiously wiping tears away, "you must think me quite the fool,"

He angled her head up to look him in the eye and said solemnly, _honestly_, "_Never_," and kissed her swollen mouth, his thumb running through a tear-track on her cheek.

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**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's Notes:** Well, I missed my update yesterday, and for that I'm sorry.

I have had a very strange couple of days. Without warning, I've been laid-off from my job on Tuesday, and yesterday I spent the day in a bit of a daze. I try not to get too personal on the internet, but I thought some explanation was needed.

I'm not sad or anything, don't worry. I actually feel kind of... relieved? The job took so much out of me and I didn't even realize it until just yesterday when a wealth of possibilities opened up to me.

Least of all with my writing. Now that I have all this unforeseen amount of free time on my hands, I plan to have all my writing done on time, and now I can start taking requests for prompts and the like, which is always fun.

So here is the next chapter. A bit long, a bit wordy, but I had fun writing it and I didn't want to change it, so I hope you don't mind me barfing up exposition, dialogue and Oghren and Alistair feels.

Please bear in my that this chapter get's a little (just a little) NSFW about 1/4 the way through.

* * *

"Alright, angle your head back for me,"

He'd been sitting in the chair in their office under her tender ministrations, performing what he felt were arbitrary actions such as tipping his head back, blinking the number of times she ordered him to, and answering her nonsensical questions. He'd made this mistake of asking the Mage, whom arguably had the best knowledge on the subject, about the tea she sent to him and if it was having the desired effect over time, because Cullen was convinced he hadn't felt so good since before the fall of Kirkwall and the tea was all he really had to go on.

He still had nightmares, of course, and there were occasions where he felt his emotions a little too strongly, a little out of control, but all things considered he was in the best shape he'd ever felt even if he didn't get as much sleep as he probably should. He was eating better, his hands weren't shaking at all and he'd had virtually no muscle pain for what felt like an extended period of time.

Constance was peering into his left eye; he twitched as her fingers gently pulled the lid down, her opposite hand was cradling the back of his head. "No discolouration," she said, "normal reactions to light and changes in temperature. You say you have no pain?"

"Not that I can think of,"

"Hmm," she didn't sound convinced, but he wasn't putting on a bravado or trying to massage her ego; it was the truth.

She made him open his mouth, and he flushed as she ordered him to flatten his tongue. From there she pulled his lips back, examined his teeth, paid special attention to the scar on his face before urging him to close it again with two fingers on the underside of his jaw.

All the while, she was the picture of professionalism, even though he wasn't sure what she was looking for or if she found something. It gave him a little time to admire the cute draw and frown in her brow as she concentrated, the penetration of her eyes like she was trying to look beneath his skin, and couldn't _really_ help how her proximity and gentle touching was giving him an erection.

It was hard having her so close to him, after all. So close he could just pull her onto his lap with a little persuasion-

"You're still having nightmares," she said, fingers gently pressing behind his ears and he fought the tremor that rolled down his spine, "that much is certain, but what about confusion? Any memory loss?"

"I've never been able to sleep well," he answered, "not since the Circle, at least. And if there was any confusion or memory loss, I haven't noticed it- _nng_!"

He nearly choked when her fingers pressed in just _there_, between his jaw and chin and the fleshy underside of his neck, but she held her fingers to the all-too-uncomfortable space until tears started forming in his eyes.

"Ah!" She pressed harder, and he gagged, and then she took her fingers away, smoothing them down the sides of his neck, "Your glands are swollen. No temperature, probably just a minor infection... but just to be sure... do you have any pain under your arms?"

Put-out and pouting, Cullen rubbed his neck and shook his head, resisting the urge to bat her away, "No, no pain,"

"Good," she seemed satisfied with his answer, and after some careful coaxing she eventually convinced him to keep still again while clearing whatever was infecting the glands in his throat with her magic. Dull aching that he'd barely even recognised in his nose and throat ebbed away, diffusing like ice in a drink.

She straightened, smiling, "Does that feel better?"

"It does. Thank you," his hand immediately shot up to his throat, despite feeling better his skin was all flushed and tingling, unused to such strange attention, "but, what do you think? Any conclusion reached?"

She looked thoughtful for a moment as her hip leaned casually on the wooden rest of the chair, holding her chin in one hand and folding the other arm under her breast, "It is hard to say. From what I've studied; complete Lyrium withdrawal is very rare, and varies in severity depending entirely on the person, the number of years taking Lyrium, and moments of relapse. I believe you when you say you have not faltered or taken more since you stopped – that could have a positive effect, or could simply be coincidence."

Constance made some offhand gesture, shifting slightly when he held her about the waist with the arm closest to her, and she continued, "It is impossible to say if it _was_ the tea, although its intention was to heal both physically and mentally, and dried _Andraste's Beckon_ has some incredible properties..." her eyes shifted to him with a sort of finality, "It could be, given the time and the support received, that you are simply recovering on your own merits,"

He'd only been paying half attention, eyes fixed to the bare slip of her neck exposed by the high collar of her coat and his lips tingling in want to kiss her there, but her words gave him a moments pause. He was... just... _recovering?_

That was _it?_

Surely there was a little more to it than that, but then again... he supposed, it _did_ make sense. His recruitment into the Inquisition had been so long ago; that was when he made the decision to stop taking the Lyrium, and his worst moments – the unrelenting agony in his body, the waking nightmares, the delusions, the mood-swings, the intense cravings, they seemed so foreign and so long ago that Cullen found himself a little awestruck.

Constance played with her gloves for a moment, before catching his eye, "If I may ask, how have your cravings been?"

As if the mention of it suddenly brought it to his attention, Cullen instantly felt his teeth start to itch, the bereft plunge in his lower belly giving way to the hunger that followed-

_But-_

But even that wasn't as terrible as it was during those first few awful months. Back then, it had taken such incredible willpower even smelling the telltale metallic scent of Lyrium not to gorge himself as though he'd been starving. Food lost taste, his mind was a haze and he knew that if he'd just taken it, he would have felt better. But what was the point?

He was no Templar, he was just a man working for the Inquisition, there was no need for Lyrium, and all the consequences that followed his consumption of it; the eventual dementia, the terror of running out of it, the Chantry potentially using it as a leash again – _no_.

Even though he thought about how his hunger for it would probably follow him for the rest of his life, how his hands and teeth would itch thinking about how to prepare it and consume it, being off of it was worth more than the quick fix it offered.

And if he was truly honest, he'd been occupying his mind with other, more _interesting_ things as of late, namely the woman barely a centimetre away and his own incredible luck that she was in his arms, "Not so bad, not lately..." he mused, pushing how he felt out of his mind to how he _would_ feel with her mouth on his, and started gently pulling her towards him.

"Ahaha, Cullen, what are you doing?" She asked as his hands held that sweet, _gripable_ space above her hip and underneath her waist, and used it to steer her from her lean against the armrest to something a little closer to him, hoping she really would be in his lap, if he had his way.

"I'm afraid I don't catch your meaning," he said, raising a brow at her as her balance faltered as her knees went between his legs, and her hands went down to hold herself against the arm-rests.

"You know very well what I mean," she swatted playfully at his breastplate as he continued to coax her closer, "... _Cullen_, someone could see..."

"Let them see," he whispered back, smirking when she folded one knee at the side of his hip, and then the other, settling in his lap like she was made to be there. Judging by the way her back gave her arse that exaggerated curve when he give it a firm squeeze and the quirk of her lip spoke of something very mischievous, she was pleased with her position despite what she said.

Don't get him wrong, he didn't want someone to walk in on them, unannounced, with the Warden Commander in the compromising position on him as she was, especially as the office was a port-to-call for most visiting Wardens and troops for the Inquisition, but it had been quiet for most of the morning, and the sight of her and her hands on him for that time brought some of those reservations down.

And he really wanted to kiss her, _really_ wanted to have his way with her.

So he traced a lazy path up her neck with his lips while his hands subtly rolled her hips against his, and could feel her breath deepen in her throat under his ministrations

"Cullen, someone could _see_," she repeated, though it was half-hearted as her eyes slipped shut, hands coming to rest on his shoulders when his hips meeting hers in the grind rocked her position ever so slightly.

To think that just a few short days ago he would have _never_ put his hands on a woman in such a manner, that just a few short days ago he was wishing and dreaming of having her the way she was, sighing and leaning into his touch, her buttocks clenching under his hands as he rolled his erection against her. It was soft, slow, _lazy_; even their kiss was such, the barest rubbing of lips and noses as his cock throbbed and he started to get that _ache_ that said he wanted her a little more than should be appropriate for the time of day that was in it.

"_Cullen_," it sounded like a warning, possibly pertaining to her earlier statement – which... was escaping him rapidly as he pressed himself against the juncture of her hips – but it belied anger. It could have been a warning to stop, or that she was unravelling just as he was. He hoped it was more of the latter. The bed was so _close_, after all...

He knew the first time, though powerful and hot as it was, would never be enough to sate him completely, "Want to... take this- _uf_... somewhere else?"

"I-I have a lot to do," the sentence came out in a rush, yet she tangled her hand in his hair as he grinned breathlessly from beneath her tilted chin; there wasn't _that_ much to do, nothing that couldn't wait a few hours, and he wanted to feel her wrapped around him like that again, hot and _wet_-

She moved off him, fumbling; he noticed she tended to lose some of that grace around him when they were getting intimate, pulling him up off the chair by his hands, her cheeks and mouth flushed all red and warm. As he stood he noticed his breeches were entirely too constricting, and hoped they would be losing them soon. If the way she pulled him towards the ladder was anything to go by, it seemed she was, and his heart started racing excitedly.

And she gave him this... _look_, something _warm_ that narrowed his line of focus down to the open honesty in her eyes, the smoothness of her lower lip, the way she was smiling at him, and Cullen didn't think anyone had ever looked at him like that before. He'd seen Cassandra look at the Inquisitor like that; and Leliana's words echoed briefly in his head; … _like the Maker himself had carved their face. I don't blame them for getting lost in that. It is a good thing to lose yourself in._

Con was looking at him like she wanted him. _Like she loved him._

Its frankness was frightening, because he didn't know what she was thinking of when she looked at him like that, didn't know what was going through her head as they made their way to the ladder. He just knew that he felt so incredibly blessed - just like all those years ago when he used to look at her fondly in the Tower – just to be around her.

So he kissed her, because there were _words_ in his throat that he knew would be nonsense if he tried to say them, or ask the questions that he suddenly needed to know answers to, lips pressed and soft and remembering a time when they couldn't have done such a thing, and how freeing it was to be able to.

But then suddenly she was pulling away, head turned towards the front door, and he could already see that where they were heading wasn't going to go in the direction he was seeking; "A Warden..."

And a bare moment later, there was a brisk rapping on the door. She stepped away from him only so much that they were no longer pressed together, and he rolled his eyes and sighed in frustration as she held his forearms and hands, chuckling; "No rest for the wicked, eh?"

They had a brief moment of very much wanting to ignore the interruption and get back to what they were doing before, but they both knew that work would not rest, and they were very much on the rota in the mid-morning. He settled for clapping her on the backside as she turned from him to open the door; she squeaked and lifted herself up onto her toes, looking back at him with playful disbelief.

"Good Afternoon, Warden Commander," the helmed Warden greeted her as she pulled open the door, and Cullen wondered if she knew it would be a Warden because of her connection to the Taint or because she was a Mage. Interesting questions for another time, perhaps.

"Oh, this should be good," he heard her mutter disdainfully as the Warden came into the room and handed her a letter bound with twine; he watched her turn it over in her hands. Cullen resumed the report he was reading from The Exalted Plains, but kept his ears open. The movements of the Wardens were mostly secretive, but he picked up snippets here and there.

"It has been a long time, Ronan. How have things been in the Korcari Wilds?"

"The same as usual, ma'am," he saluted quickly, bowing, "full of hostile Chasind clans and pockets of Darkspawn. The land seems to be recovering much faster since we set down the plantation of Prickleweed, as you suspected."

"That is good news. With that kind rate of recovery we may have the Ferelden land back from the Blight within the next decade. Excellent work,"

"Thank you. Do you have any more need of me, ma'am?"

"Hang around, Ronan. I should like a more in-depth report soon, but this letter requires my attention,"

"News from Weisshaupt, ma'am?"

"If you could call their circular arguments _news_, then yes," she replied, scowling.

The man saluted once more and bowed, and Cullen rose a brow when he also saluted to him, uttering a short, "_Commanders_," before leaving. Since Constance's residency in Skyhold, most of the Wardens present greeted him formally though he held no rank above them with the return of their Commander. They were allies but he was not _their_ Commander, though few of them were in any way informal with him. On the battlefield, he'd held that title because their alliance hinged on Corypheus's defeat; that no longer held any sway now that the Magister was dead.

Still, many of them saluted him... and he didn't correct them, either. Probably because the terms of the alliance was too complicated to explain. Mostly because he was sure they did it out of respect, not habit.

Cullen watched as, unfolding the letter and beginning to pace around the office, Constance held it like one would a particularly unruly animal as she continued down past the first page and onto the next; he could see the fold where her fingers clung to the thick vellum so tightly that her thumb had actually punched a hole through one of the pages.

All the candles in the room sprang to life, and he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden _foof_ of flame, all half-hearted perusal of his reports forgotten.

"..._ in this unwelcome alliance... a disregard for hierarchy-_" she read aloud, first quietly through gritted teeth, but then in an indignant growl, snapping the paper closer to her face as the flames of the candles sputtered and spat; "_-blatant political meddling __**oh**_ Sweet Andraste _save_ me from these fools!"

"I am presuming your last letter did not go over well with them?" He asked cautiously as the acrid smell of burning wax filled the room; the candle underneath the wax-burner was flaming like the fires of a hearth.

Constance scrunched up the letter in her fist, "_Hardly_. I appreciate Josephine's help with writing it, but even the most honeyed words could not sway these... _sycophants_."

He remembered Alistair's report from Weisshaupt and the mad grabbing for power there, and judging by the words Constance read from the letter the situation seemed to be worsening. Over her shoulder he could see Alistair striding purposefully across the battlements through the open front door, and when he reached the office his face spoke of how he knew of the situation before Constance even opened her mouth.

"I have something you should see," her fellow Warden said gravely, handing her another letter as she rolled out the one she'd balled in her hand.

Constance took it, frowning, "You too? I presume they gave you the same spiel; all their reprimands for "political meddling" and yet they still stand by Vigil's Keep being a base and not an arling. _Ridiculous_."

Alistair shook his head, raising his brow suspiciously, "Political... what? What did they say? Let me see it,"

They exchanged letters, and Cullen stood back to fold his arms as they paused to read them; Alistair seemed to grow more and more irate as he read on, pausing to read certain lines aloud as his Commander had – the words _political meddling_ resurfaced – and held the letter tightly between his fingers that suggested he was just stopping short from ripping it in two.

Constance's expression however, _that_ softened, and she looked up from Alistair's correspondence (he could see the broken Warden seal in signature blue wax on the top and bottom of the paper) with a great weight in her face.

"Alistair... this is quite the promotion," she started, but the man stopped her immediately, gesturing with her letter.

"Oh come off it. If you can't see what they're trying to do by making me Commander and practically stripping you of your rank, then I can't spell it out for you. That's not a _promotion_, it's a deliberate conflict of interests – and I won't have it. They can stick their title, I'm not taking it,"

"Alistair-"

"Don't. _You_ lead the Ferelden Wardens, and since your return you've lead the Orlesian Wardens as well. _This_ letter," he held it up, "means nothing. And neither does that one,"

"Alright," Cullen eventually allowed his curiosity to get the better of him, and piped up, "care to tell me what's going on? Or are you just going to argue like I'm not even in the room?"

Both Constance and Alistair exchanged guilty glances and Cullen felt his blood starting to boil. He really hated being so out-of-the-loop when it came to Warden matters, especially considering he'd taken over many duties as their impromptu Commander when they first forged their alliance. _That_, and his relationship with Constance occasionally felt closed when such topics came up, which was something that both worried and annoyed him.

Because he wanted to be there for her, not just as her lover, but as a confidant as well. He wasn't about to go spouting Warden secrets to every passer-by he found, yet she treated the information as though he would.

And it was frightening, because of the few traits Cullen prided himself on, his _trustworthiness_ was definitely one of them.

Constance started hesitantly, looping her hands behind her back, that mask of command descending over her features; "The situation in Weisshaupt has been divided for some time; since Corypheus's first defeat by Ulysses Hawke, in fact. The hierarchy are not impressed with alliance that has been forged with the Inquisition – they appear to be intimidated by how rapidly the Inquisition grew over such a short period, and did not want the Wardens associated with a religious movement. With so many ties to the Chantry, and with a hand in so many affairs that were religious, social and political, they couldn't been seen to be taking sides."

"The Mage uprising, the new Divine, the Orlesian Civil War," Alistair counted off on his fingers, "the fate of the Orlesian Empire and the throne, the Red Templars, the tearing of the Veil, _Corypheus_ – and let's not forget saving the Nevarran King from Venatori agents and the small town's-worth of people stationed in Tevinter. I'd say the Inquisition has a bit more influence then your average military."

Constance continued, "The fact that Corypheus was a Darkspawn was cause for concern for them, but while they were in their fortress arguing over the best course of action to take against him, the Inquisition was foiling his every move. As I agreed to the alliance against their wishes; choosing instead to placate the concerns of my men and taking what was arguably the best chance of defeating Corypheus – they wish to strip me of my title as Ferelden Commander of the Grey, and are calling me to Weisshaupt for a trial,"

"Which is nonsense," Alistair rounded her on, "and will _not_ be happening. Nor will I be accepting their offer to take the role of Commander."

Constance looked like she wanted to argue, make Alistair see reason somehow, and he knew immediately what was going through her mind because if he was in her position, it would have been the same thing going through his. _What if they are right...? What if I am not good enough? What if Alistair is the better option?_

Yet Alistair seemed to think she _was_ good enough, good enough that he would refuse an impressive title that was potentially owed to him because she commanded his loyalty, and Cullen was inclined to agree.

And that became all the more evident when, the following day, the Inquisitor approached him mid-afternoon and gestured to battlements. Constance had been gone for most of the morning, convening with the other Wardens closest to her about her correspondence with Weisshaupt. He'd _insisted_ that they speak with Inquisitor Adaar, but she said that she wanted to speak with her men first, because she wasn't sure what the way forward for her was.

He could only hope that she didn't step down, but there was a worryingly unsure nature to her face that he didn't quite like. The night before she'd barely slept a wink, waking only from an intense nightmare of, apparently, _tunnelling Darkspawn_, and his bed had been lonely and cold without her in it. He didn't sleep much either, but then he never did anyway.

"There are Wardens gathering in the courtyard," the Inquisitor rumbled at him, inclining his head toward the battlements, "it looks hostile. Would you mind...?"

"Not at all," he immediately stepped out from behind his desk and they made their way across the battlements, from which he could already hear a crowd yelling and when looking across, could see the impressive number there next to the empty training ring. Through the Main Hall, they walked down the steps but the Inquisitor placed a large hand in front of him, stopping him from moving into the decidedly hostile fray.

He could see Constance standing at the forefront, arms folded, Oghren on one side of her and Velanna on the other, both of whom looked ready to kill. Scattered about the crowd he could see Tanner, Sigrun and Nathniel, and off to the side Alistair was arguing with a Warden he didn't recognise.

Iron Bull, Dorian, Sera, Cole and Varric were sitting on the roof next to Sera's room, watching.

"- not until we get some answers!" A warden at the front spat, pointing his finger threateningly close to his Commander.

Constance's voice was clear and loud, and some of them hushed when she spoke, which was surprising to him considering her usually soft-spoken nature, "I have already answered your questions and concerns, what more would you have of me, Leland?"

"I want to know why this was all kept a secret. Why Corypheus was kept a secret. This is a bloody _joke_-"

"By the sodding ancestors," Oghren yelled at him, "do you think she can read their fuckin' minds?! Yes it was a secret - a dangerous secret - and yeah it should have been made known to us all, maybe we could have avoided all this – but it _wasn't_. So she's telling you what she knows now, and that's good enough for me! Are you saying that it's not good enough for you?!"

"I can understand your frustrations," she put up her hand in placation, "I have shared many of them. I knew nothing of this Corypheus until it was all too late, as you have, and I am standing by this secrecy no longer."

"You wanna rebuild Adamant with the rest of us, then you better stand in line or by the Stone I'll-"

"_Oghren!_ Please," she shoved the Dwarf by the shoulder, "divided, we have no force against the Darkspawn. I am telling you that those at Weisshaupt are happy to sit on their hands and argue over who wears a badge more than who picks up the sword against our foes-"

"And what of the Orlesian Wardens?" One Warden with a thick, Royeaux accent called out, "Clarel is dead! Still we wait for news of her replacement,"

"I don't know about you, but I am with the Ferelden Commander,"

"As am I,"

"She has been leading us since Corypheus's fall, and there are so few of us left. She defeated an Archdemon and saved Ferelden. I am with her,"

"So we just abandon our leaders?! Disobey our orders?!"

"They want to sit in their Tower and play leader, I say let them! I'll not follow their word if they do nothing-"

"Nor I!"

Constance unfolded her arms and stood straighter, tilting her chin upwards, "Then _listen_ to me!" She called out and most quietened down, although they still seemed anxious, "You have a choice. You _all_ have a choice. As we sit here arguing over secrets of dead Magisters, our fellow Wardens are trying to rebuild what was lost at Adamant, and so many of you have expressed concerns on wanting to help them. I am telling you that the First Warden does not want us to do this, but _I_ disagree,"

"I will not lie to you. I will not keep any more secrets from you. Since the false Calling, I have been looking for a cure for the Taint – we have lost too many good, strong, able-bodied men and women to the Calling and I will not stand for another man like Corypheus to rise up and turn us against each other again! We are _Grey Wardens_ – we are the promise to keep the people of Thedas safe, we are the wall that stands between the horde and innocent people out there who will never acknowledge our sacrifice."

"You have a choice, you _all_ have a choice; but I guarantee that you will find no honour or grace waiting for you rotting away in Weisshaupt, keeping your sword sheathed until your Calling takes you. If you wish to rally under me, we _will_ rebuild Adamant, we _will_ continue to protect Thedas and we _will_ look for a cure, _that_ I can promise you. And we will do that with, or without the First Warden's permission."

Constance Amell certainly wasn't that sweet little Mage in the Tower, studying sigils in the back of the library anymore. Oh she was still _sweet_, and she was _little_ in a sense that he was at least a head taller than her if not more, but she was towering over all of them with that speech and Cullen couldn't blame a single one of them for smartly shutting their mouths.

Her words carried weight, the gravity of what was happening with the Wardens and their hierarchy, perhaps even the fate of their Order, and it struck him then that she cared _deeply_ about what was happening to them.

Not that it was so surprising; she'd been the Commander of the Grey for the better part of ten years, saved Ferelden from the Blight – why wouldn't she care what happened to them? Why wouldn't she want a better purpose for her men, or want to reject a direction that she felt went against their edicts?

Hadn't he done exactly the same thing with the Templars? Hadn't he rallied men to his cause when the Knight-Commanders were calling for blood and war when everyone was already devastated in Kirkwall and the Free Marches?

There was a pregnant silence, broken only by Tanner piping up from the back; "I'm with you, Warden Commander! You saved my life once, I'm not about to abandon you now,"

"Nor will I! You could have killed me when you had the chance, but you chose mercy over revenge. I know the kind of Commander you are, and I would not leave your side now," that was Nathaniel, and next to him Sigrun yelled in affirmation, unsheathing a dagger and raising it as high into the air as a Dwarf could muster.

Others started to follow suit, the grind of metal sliding against leather ringing in the courtyard until he could see almost all of the gathered Wardens had unsheathed their swords and raised them into the air, including Oghren standing beside his Commander, raising his axe, and Alistair off to the side.

"I'd follow you into the Void and back, Con," the Dwarf turned to her, "just say the word,"

And Cullen's hand twitched on the pommel of his own sword in want to swear fealty as well.

"What about you, Leland?" Constance rounded on the Warden who'd been arguing with her in the beginning, "Will you join us at Adamant, or will you return to Weisshaupt? _Or_, will you forge your own path, and make something better?"

The helmed Warden had his arms crossed, he shifted uncomfortably before demanding an answer; "... No more lies, are we clear?"

"No more lies," she agreed.

"And no more secrets. No one ever benefited from ignorance, Commander,"

"No more secrets. _That_, I give you my word,"

The man named Leland also drew his sword and got down on one knee, holding the hilt in one hand and laying the flat of his blade in the palm of his other, "Then I will fight with you,"

"Cullen," the Inquisitor murmured over the rather rattling cry from the Wardens there, "what do you know about this?"

Smirking in disbelief and keeping his eyes on the spectacle, he replied with a barely contained chuckle; "It appears that the Ferelden and Orlesian branches of Grey Wardens are breaking away from Weisshaupt,"

"I'm going to need more information on this," the Qunari said, gesturing for him to follow him back though the main hall into what he presumed would be an impromptu council meeting.

Cullen kept his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword the entire time, his decision made.

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**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading!


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Notes:** Well this chapter kind of fucking got away from me. I practically gutted it and wrote it all over again, and now I am much happier with how it went.

I get very tired of fics that tease sex and don't deliver, which was what I was pretty much doing in favor of the plot.

But Ah! I said, this is MY fic, and I will write what I damn well please.

So enjoy your gratuitous sex scene ya filthy animals. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it.

It is absolutely, absolutely NSFW. Seriously.

* * *

By the time the Inquisitor finally allowed them to leave the War Room, night had fallen over Skyhold. Cullen pushed open the door to his office and shut it with a relieved sigh, his head aching from the stress of such a long, drawn out meeting.

Constance had been absent for it, busy delegating with Wardens still full of questions on their uncertain future. Cullen, _unfortunately_, had to stand-in for her and could only really answer the Inquisitor's questions with what he vaguely knew. It was only when it became apparent that the very person with the relevant information was sadly occupied that the Inquisitor allowed them to leave for the rest of the evening.

From up in his room he could hear Constance chime out a greeting, and instantly his face filled with nervous warmth.

He needed to speak with her, and what he had to say could not wait. If the Wardens wished to leave to rebuild Adamant with their Commander then he needed to tell her _now_.

He needed to tell her that he... _agreed_ with what the Wardens and by proxy she, as their Commander, stood for – the protection of the people of Thedas being tantamount to everything, loyalty to their cause and to each other not just as comrades, but as friends. That he felt inspired by what they were doing and working towards, by how fiercely loyal her troops were to her and how he couldn't blame a single one of them for putting such trust in her when her cause was such a righteous one. That he loved that they disagreed with the rampant use of Blood Magic and demon summoning Clarel tried to push as the last resort.

That he wanted to be the shield at her back. The sword at her side. That he would readily live and die for her, knowing it would be a worthy cause for an incredible person.

_Because I love her._

Stripping off his pauldrons, bracers and breastplate, Cullen hung them on the mannequin that occasionally served as a training dummy when he broke the other one and made his way up the ladder, heart pounding.

Constance was sitting on the edge of the bed in a simple, long robe tied at the waist, running a brush through the ends of her hair.

She turned and regarded him with a smile, standing up; "You're back. I've barely seen you all day,"

He smirked, taking a moment to really take-in the sight of the woman he'd come to love in his room, wearing that bare slip of cloth and standing like she belonged there, and he admonished her in jest; "I've been in meetings all day. Your performance in the Courtyard earlier has set heads rolling. The Inquisitor wanted more information, which would have been easier had you been at the council,"

"Ah, I see," she hung her head, turning away and brushing her hair back with the thick wooden brush, sending the clean smell of soap his way, "I would have been... the messenger told me of the meeting but I was in delegation with a lot of my men. I will hold a meeting tomorrow to clear the air,"

"Please do. The Inquisitor would like to know what this will mean for the Wardens," he stepped closer as she lay the brush down on the night-stand, holding her gently about the waist and leaning in to press his nose against the crown of her head, breathing in that sweet smell of her hair, "and not just him, either. We would _all_ like to know,"

She sighed, leaning flush against him; "I know. I'm sorry, I did not mean for this to come to a head so quickly,"

Really, he meant that _he_ wanted to know what was going on a little better, but saying that the Council preferred more information and given his position it made it sound a little more professional than him being simply curious.

"I will speak with the Inquisitor and the rest of the Council in the morning," she assured, humming softly when he nuzzled her hair, "I do not want to leave this alliance on a bad note."

Cullen rotated his thumbs against the dip of her waist, feeling the shift of her shoulders against his chest and the warmth radiating from her, seeping into his clothes. Seeing her out there, in the role of Commander to her men had been indescribably attractive, possibly because it had countered the still soft image of her in his mind and it opened her up to him in somewhat of a new light.

He'd always known that she was powerful; what glimpses he saw of her in the Tower and the fact that she took down Uldred after so many Mages failed was enough proof that her power was none to be trifled with – but seeing her have power, _influence_, that really cemented what sort of position she had come into in is head, so she was not just that sweet Mage from the Circle he had a bit of an infatuation with, not anymore.

In the Circle he'd always enjoyed seeing her accomplish something, be it with her research or practical work – so it followed that seeing her rally her men like that brought him – though it was not even his Command – an incredible amount of pride.

So he pulled her a little closer, letting his large hands settle on the round expanse of her hips, relishing the warmth of her, "You know, it should probably go without saying, but I was really proud of you out there today,"

"Oh?"

"Seeing you inspire your men to your cause," he said, using his chin to brush the hair away from her shoulder and pressing a kiss to the side of her neck, "I wouldn't be surprised if half the Inquisition's troops left to join the Wardens after today, especially after seeing you in the Courtyard,"

Her skin smelled _incredible_, Maker but what was she wearing? He pressed another kiss to her neck then, lower, at the crook of her neck and shoulder and he could feel her shudder underneath his palms, saying; "I would only be so lucky. After Clarel's actions I am amazed there are any Orlesian Wardens left at all,"

Her back was against his torso and there was that shudder again, letting his lips linger on her skin just to breathe in that scent. He was more than aware that he had to tell her something important, that he'd nearly bolted out of the War Room in his urgency just to get the words out and he'd even broached the topic, but as she continued to speak, leaning her head to the side slightly to bare more of her long throat and pressed her back a little further against him, it was getting harder to remember what he had to say.

"I spent a long time rebuilding what was lost at Ostagar," she said, her hands enveloping his as they slid around her waist to her stomach, "after so many Wardens were killed in the battle. For a long time it was just me and Alistair. I don't want that to happen again,"

They had a whole night to talk... _surely_. And she seemed to be enjoying what he was doing, what was the harm in taking it a little further? With his nose he nuzzled his way down the smooth length of her throat and kissed just there, in the curve of her shoulder, the robe she was wearing scratching against his mouth. He left long, lingering kisses back up, and _up_, until he was just below her ear-

As she kept talking; "I will have some... some business to attend to in... in Amaranthine, before I head to Adamant. It will take a few weeks to try and co-ordinate the... _mmmh_... the people here,"

Her hips pressed back and he managed to hold back the groan by laving her skin with his tongue. He used his hands on her stomach to pull her a little further into him, feeling the cleft of her arse underneath the robe cup the growing bulge in his breeches that was quickly getting painful. Perhaps their... _conversation_ could wait after all...

The night was long, and they'd spent nearly every night together since the first time, why break a streak? Gently, _slowly_, he reached up to pull the shoulder of the soft linen robe down a little, baring a creamy slip of skin to the attentions of his mouth, cock twitching when he heard her suck in a breath through her teeth mid-way between speaking-

"There will be some _mmmh_... delegation with Weisshaupt I'm sure. _Ssst~... Cullen,_"

"Hnn?" He nipped lightly at her shoulder, soothed the reddened skin with his tongue.

"You appear to be f-feeling quite amorous today,"

Since their first night together it had been every day, his want for her appeared to be insatiable to the point where just being near her caused that throbbing ache in his cock, _so yes_, perhaps he was feeling rather _amorous_...

"Would you like me to stop?" It came out slightly nasally as he continued to rub his nose against the side of her neck.

"I never said _that_..."

That was enough confirmation for him to keep going, to perhaps take it a little further as he pressed his hardness against the cleft of her arse, pulled her hips into him with hands that groped and squeezed appreciatively at the generous handfuls of her hips. Her skin was smooth and smelled so _good_ as he kissed another slow trail op her neck, wondering if perhaps she was feeling something similar to what he had in mind by the way she wriggled against his hips and sighed.

He mouthed his way back down, eyes slipping shut, the only sounds he could really hear were the natural creaks and groans in the wood of the building and her soft, deliberate breathing. He smoothed the shoulders of her robe down her arms, untying the loose knot at her waist until it fell to the floor with a soft _whumph_, and then she was bare and _Maker_ so _soft_ under his hands.

She tipped her head back, and with a quick glance as he laved the tip of his tongue on the curve of her shoulder he could see her eyes were shut, her teeth idly teasing her lower lip. There was something about it, about knowing his effect on her was so sexual that made him feel rather worshipful – perhaps not in the Andrastian sense of the word, _Maker_ but if they could replace praying with what he was doing he was sure they would all be cast into the Void for their blasphemy – _no_. What he felt was a sort of...

… _Reverence_.

She was _beautiful_, and _sensitive_, and she'd welcomed him to do such things to her body that spoke of how much she trusted in him, how much she wanted him, and it left him with the feeling that – if she asked – he would happily keep doing what he was doing to her forever, she need only say the word. He would worship every inch of her if she asked, with his hands, with his mouth, even though he seemed to get swept away in the current of his own pleasure more than he wished he did.

Constance leaned forward and up perhaps a little too far, her hand shooting out to brace herself against the wall over the night-stand as she nearly fell forward, but he decided he liked her like that. Gently, he pulled up her other arm until she used that to brace herself too, until she was bent over slightly at the waist, gravity pulling her breasts down which he cupped lightly in his palms, mouthing her neck with careful nips of his teeth. The fluidity of how she rolled her hips into his, her head falling back against his shoulder and gasping – nearly all brought him to his knees.

But he wouldn't have her, despite the insistent pounding of his cock. Not until he _worshipped_ her a little more, showed her how much he enjoyed seeing her like that, seeing her undone before him, knowing that just hours before she was rallying people to fight for her and now she was breathing shallowly as he gently squeezed her breasts in his hands and roved the pads of his thumbs over tightening nipples, grinding back as much as she ground in him.

Their movements were slow, purposeful, sensual instead of urgent. He continued to nip and suck at different parts of her neck and across her shoulders, leaned down to lick a trail up her spine, shuddering when she quietly moaned his name.

His own sexual audacity surprised him sometimes, made him surprised at his own forwardness with her or some of the more lurid things he did or found enjoyable. Sex had always been that thing that happened between other people and not to him, not until he found someone he could truly share something special with, so when he flicked the tip of his tongue against the top of her spine on the way up her back, feeling the way she arched into him, moulding firm tits in his hands and using them like handles to keep her still, he wondered if perhaps he was being too... _much_.

Con certainly didn't seem to mind, quite the opposite in fact. Something which, despite his religious upbringing telling him so very differently, only made him desire her all the more.

It was hard not to feel that lurid sense of perverseness in the delight he took when he slid his palms down the delicious swell of her hips and then in, one of his hands cupping her mound in a motion that had her coming up onto her toes and gasping out in what sounded like a _sob_; "Oh _Cullen_,"

If he could hear that impassioned cry of his name falling out of her panting mouth every day, he would. He _planned_ to. He wanted to be there to make love to her every day, for the rest of his life if she would have him.

He pressed his middle finger up, his breath getting harsh when it slipped easily between folds that were already _soaking wet_. The reluctant fascination he had with the ridiculous gossip of that _wetness_ between the Templars so long ago, he remembers them speaking of how wet the whores they bedded were, how that spoke of their desire for them, and he wondered if it was similar to how Con was practically dripping for him, the sticky slick rolling down his index and middle finger as he rubbed them between soft folds and collecting in his palm.

Her moans were quiet and short, and still he kept that slow pace, that sensual fluidity to his movements that had her grinding firmly in his lap. His mouth watered when he thought about how wet and hot she would feel around his cock, how he couldn't wait to sink into her like that, but he shoved the thought away.

It would be slow. He wanted it to be slow. He was always too eager and every time he'd come too quick. If he had his way, that would _not_ happen.

Cullen nudged her legs open with a knee, knowing if she continued grinding against him the way she was, his restraint wouldn't hold, and inched his hips away from her so he could get his other hand between her, so one teased her from the front and the other from behind.

The loud, _surprised_ moan she gave when the fingers on his other hand slipped under her arse and teased her opening made his cock twitch almost painfully, but he was certainly enjoying seeing the way she rolled against both his hands-

Because this was the woman who stopped the Fifth Blight, the woman who ended the Ferelden Civil War. How many men and women could say they had her, legs spread, slick dripping onto the floor as she ground herself against their hands?

This was the woman who commanded the Grey, who united even outlying clans like the Dalish with Ferelden in a singular cause.

This was _the woman who saved his life_, he thought as he sank a finger into her from behind, stilling, adding another when he pulled it out to the tip, leaned forward to mouth kisses across smooth shoulder-blades, and with the hand in front he rubbed a slow, lazy grind with the pads of his fingers between her folds, against her clit.

"Cullen... _Cullen_, sweet Maker I can-_nnn~_... I can't stand anymore," she gasped out, and it was then that he noticed her knees and thighs and arms were trembling.

But having her melting against him like she was, each stroke of his fingers getting her wetter, seeing the clench of her arse and her fingers against the wall was too much against her request, so he continued, _in_, out, _in_, slow like he wanted to take his time even though his cock was starting to get pinched by the laces of his small-clothes.

And he was struck by a fascinating idea of having her from behind, as he felt her clenching around his fingers, that textured, interesting passage at a different angle than he had grown accustomed to. But if she couldn't stand...

He gently pulled his fingers out, listening to the way she moaned as he rested the pads of his fingers against her opening as a sort of comfort, hoping he didn't hurt her, and pulled her flush against him to try and steer her towards the bed, cock throbbing at the idea of her, on her knees as he took her in smooth, steadfast strokes.

The thought, he decided, was nothing like the actual sight of her as he gently urged her towards the bed and steered her down with a hand on the back of her neck, and she _followed_ his ministrations like it was no big thing he was asking for her to bend and crawl up onto her knees, arse in the air, her hands curling in the sheets like she was bracing herself, _or trying to stop herself_, and he shuddered from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

Because she was the woman who saved his life and his country, and she was not only obeying his direction and potentially embarrassing herself, but moaning and panting like she was _enjoying_ it.

Cullen wasted no time in stripping, watching how she listened to the sound of his clothes hitting the floor and wriggled in anticipation, that gorgeous arse of hers clenching at the touch of his hands smoothing and gently squeezing the sweet expanse of skin and muscle there, nudging her up the bed so he could kneel comfortably behind her. He stroked himself, briefly, without really thinking because the sight of her was just so _erotic_, but thought the better of it because there was no way he would last with her like _that_.

_No way_, he lamented, eyes rolling back as he slid himself along her, feeling her legs clench as her hips bumped against his, she was so _hot_, too hot, even as he smoothed his hands over her hips and up her waist to try and somehow steel himself, ground himself for the inevitable pleasure that was about to come, he _knew_.

"Cullen, _please_," he heard her beg, muffled by the sheets and the hair in her face, and he nearly came right there and then by the tone of her voice, "stop teasing me,"

He entered her with a low, barely contained whine which was almost ironic, considering their position, with him taking her from behind like an animal, the first thrust rough and uncontrolled at the achingly intense feeling of her tight and wet and _Maker_ so _hot_ around him.

He was surprised by how good it felt, without fail, every time he first drove himself into her, with trembling fingers and breath he just couldn't catch. Pleasure was something he'd been so bereft of, so wanting of, for so long that actually having it was like a tidal wave threatening to break over him at any second. The next thrust and the one after were explorative, not as explosive as the first but enough to help him get used to the feeling of pressure building in his lower stomach, of the press of his pelvic bone against her as he buried himself right to the base-

_Maker_ but he _had_ to think of something else, or he was going to lose it and fuck her like his body was begging him, and he'd wanted – _planned_ \- to take it slowly, to put her pleasure above his, but it was so hard because she just felt so exquisite, looked so beautiful.

Con's face was buried in the sheets, her hair a haphazard mess, arms strained and shoulders tight as she pulled on the sheets in each tight fist. With another firm, deeply satisfying thrust he ran a palm down her spine, admiring the dimples above her hips in the smooth, creamy skin and listened to her high, breathless moans that he hadn't quite heard from her before.

She had always sounded like she enjoyed when they made love, even if he couldn't always bring her to the kind of orgasms that she brought him. But _this_ was something different, as he focused on the sound as he continued that firm, steady thrust into her; her nails and fingers scratched and grasped at the sheets as she moaned low, rough, guttural in the back of her throat. He prayed he wasn't hurting her, that she wasn't just taking it despite the pain to keep him interested.

So he leaned forward, grasping with one hand between her hip and thigh to keep that steady pace of fucking her, the other going under her torso to lift her up until she shakily brought her elbows underneath her, shoulders drawn up like a cat, and the _sounds she made_ as his pace increased with the change in angle – he spared a brief thought for the hole in the roof and knew that after tonight, all of Skyhold would know his name because she was crying it out like a prayer, and making no attempt to stop him from what he was doing, either.

"_Maker_," he found himself groaning wonderingly, his forehead falling to the space between her shoulder-blades, dwarfing her under the bulk of his body, hearing the wet sounds of his cock working in her as she pushed back against his hips at each hard, steady, unforgiving drive.

Oh he was going to come; the erotic nature of the position, the feeling of her pushing back as he fucked her, the spared thought of how _this isn't making love this is too hot for __that_ lanced across his mind as he sloppily kissed the back of her neck, the sound of her sobbing his name out, _no_, there wouldn't be any stopping it. Try as much as he wanted, he couldn't hold it.

He _wanted_ to. He wanted to keep going, help her reach that pinnacle that she seemed to so easily bring him to, and as he curled his fingers on her hip and the other against her chest he wondered _how, how can I make this better for her...?_

_There must be something._

She seemed to like what he was doing to her earlier, when she was bracing herself against the wall, and his hand on her breastbone twitched as he thought about sliding it down between her legs, _perhaps_-

She must have known what he was thinking before he touched her, because her body wound up tight and rigid as his hand smoothed down her belly and her head tipped back. Her clit and folds were like liquid fire, soaked and hot and swollen when he rubbed them with his fingers and then she was _keening_; "_I... __I-I__... oh Cullen, Maker, __Cullen__!_"

He had to hold on to her hips like a vice because she bucked so sharply he nearly slipped out, only really able to afford the most short, shallow thrusts because keeping her steady while she writhed was enough of a challenge. It almost seemed like she was trying to take more and get away at the same time, her passage constricting wildly around him and her legs jerking and her hands fisting so tightly in the sheets her knuckles were turning white.

The acrid stench of burning drifted up into his nose, and as he looked down he could see her hands were literally burning through the sheets, leaving blackened holes and was briefly glad she wasn't at his shoulders at that moment. He continued despite it, with those short, sharp thrusts and his fingers rubbing in tight circles, until she was _actually_ sobbing, hips jerking in a total loss of rhythm and her feet kicking and back arching and shoulders straining – he couldn't tell if she was coming or not, but whatever he was doing appeared to be turning her completely insane-

"Maker, _please_... _stop_!" She cried out, but the pumping of his hips wouldn't abate, not until she repeated, "Cullen, _please_! No more!"

_Wait... what...?_ But, no, _no_ he-

"Can't... take... anymore," she panted as his movements ground to a halt, his brows drawn in confusion; she _looked_ like she'd been enjoying- "Maker it was so much... too good, I can't take anymore, please stop, _please_."

He had no choice but to obey, even though the insistent pounding in his cock, the base aching for release all begged him otherwise – he would stop if she asked him. He pulled out slow, lips ticking at the feeling of her sliding around him, and continued to kiss the back of her neck so he could do something with his mouth that wasn't biting down in frustration.

He rolled off her, throwing an arm over his sweaty forehead and stamping down onto the urge to take himself in his hand and finish, because he was still hoping, maybe, if she just perhaps needed a break...

He watched her straighten out onto her stomach, groaning as bones in her legs popped, and jerked her head back to get the hair out of her face, ruffling her fringe with a puff of air. Her face was pink, eyes glittering, and she raised a brow at him; "Maker, Cullen, where did you learn _that_?"

Cullen chuckled, trying to control his breath and to ignore how his cock throbbed by rolling his hips, hoping like hell that it would just go down against his stomach, but he head been so close-

Worked on too thoroughly, but he didn't want to just use his hands because it didn't feel as amazing as she did, and he briefly hated himself because that kind of thinking wasn't just dangerous, it was downright selfish.

And she noticed. Her brows drew together in concern, eyes travelling down the length of his body until they settled on his hips, then widening in surprise. "_Oh_," she said, blushingly hotly, "you didn't finish,"

Already moving towards him, he shook his head and took one of her questing hands that dared to touch his stomach, "Don't worry about it,"

She looked down at him, moving slowly until she settled between his legs, looming over him with that concerned look on her face, "Cullen, let me-"

She tried to take her hand from his but he grasped it a little more firmly, "Really, Con. I'm fine,"

But her other hand was still free, and he hissed and bucked as her fingers and palm gently wrapped around him, "That is not fair," she said quietly, "not when you can do such things to me and not allow me to return the favour,"

The softness of her hand, her grip, brought out a frustrated growl from the back of his throat, "Con, it... it won't be enough,"

The shameful, entirely too selfish admittance left her confused, "Won't be enough? How?"

He grasped her hips with his hands, trying to pull her into him, "I-I want _you -_ it's not enough,"

But she pushed his hands away, her grip on his cock tightening and sliding slowly, up and down, still wet from being in her, "I can't, Cullen. It was too much, it would only hurt me now,"

_Use magic_, his thoughts demanded, hips rolling into her grip despite himself, _please I just... I need-_

"But if my hands are not enough, perhaps I could try something else?"

"What do you mean? Like what?"

"Just... trust me on this,"

He tipped his head back into the pillows, squeezing his eyes shut because he wanted nothing more than to just... _take_ her, and her hands were doing nothing but teasing him, even if it felt good to have her touching him. It was difficult to work past the frustration and he would have rather just let himself be, let it go down on its own, but he couldn't deny her anything when she asked, really.

Cullen was almost going to resign himself to knowing his pleasure would not go past what she was doing with her hands, _almost_, until there was something different about what she was doing, some soft heat around the head of him, and _then_ the head of his cock was slowly, softly enveloped in wet warmth and he gasped, hips snapping down-

He leaned up on one elbow, looking down to see her between his legs, pink little tongue tracing paths up the length of his cock from base to tip, and he shuddered at the sight as she locked her gaze with his, those _eyes_ dark and overly-sexual.

"Wh-what are you doing?" He murmured, his cheeks flaming at the sight, but she didn't answer; he simply watched in fascination as that mouth he'd spent so long fantasising about parted around the head of him, took him in to her mouth past the ridged edge and sucked, and he felt his eyes burn just trying to keep them open with the raw pleasure that rippled from where she sucked, outward through his whole body.

He had to lie back, had to grip the sheets beneath him to keep from grabbing her head or her hair as she came up, back _down_, sucked again, bringing blood rushing to the surface of the skin there and her hand was easing the base of him in firm, smooth strokes.

All entirely too slow, but it felt like nothing he'd ever experienced, not with his hands, not even with being inside of her.

Con worked on the head of him with the sort of slow patience that was driving him mad, sucking until it was left red and swollen and sensitive and _burning_, with no orgasm in sight. And through the pleasure that was overriding everything, through the incredible sense of how erotic her mouth on his cock was, he was left a panting, whimpering mess.

Her hand stroked firmly as her mouth continued that slow, deep suck, soothing with her tongue when it was too much, and he found himself biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from thrusting into her mouth to find some relief – he didn't want to hurt her, not when she was making him _feel_ so-

The pace gradually increased, so gradually and so slowly that he was already sweating from being kept on that edge, his hips quaking and his knees trembling and tears pricked the corners of his eyes and he was _begging_ her, in some filthy Kirkwaller street language he'd never thought he heard himself say out loud and wouldn't sound out of place in the pits of Lowtown.

"Con please, I... I-I _want_ to come, _please_ just let me... I can't _take_ anymore, please Con,"

Both of her hands were wrapped tightly around the base, thumbs rubbing circles up his swollen length as her mouth worked on him, lines of spit running down from her lips down his shaft and getting lost in her fingers or the hair there, and he was trying so hard not to arch up, his head mashed into the pillow underneath him because that was the only purchase he could find, his hands wringing the sheets so tightly it was a wonder he wasn't tearing them in half.

Whether or not it was intentional that she was keeping him on that edge, he didn't know, not past the _burning_ at the head of his cock and the _ache_ in the rest of him, but when he felt her increase her pace again his body rushed so quickly towards orgasm that he didn't even have time to warn her.

He couldn't speak, couldn't make a sound; his mouth fell open at the blinding ecstasy that rushed through his body almost painfully. After being denied his orgasm the first time, it built until his body pursued it with a singular purpose until it took over everything, every nerve, every muscle and it went on and on _and on_-

And _still_ it built so that past his body being kept on that edge he was able to draw in a shaking breath, "Con... I... _I-_"

But the words failed because he came at one last fervent suck of her mouth and lips, groaning low and long until there was no breath left in him, tears spilling out of his eyes in sweet relief. The pleasure flooded everything, and with the press of her tongue against the head of him he could feel the last few spurting shocks, racking his frame until he was spent so deliciously he nearly passed out.

Left panting, sweating, shaking from the aftershock, it took some time for Cullen to come down, time enough for him to not even feel embarrassed when Constance sat up, prettily pushed her hair back behind her ear and _spat_ out his seed onto the floor with a mildly disgusted expression. She shot him an apologetic glance after, smirking, but all he really could manage to do was roll his eyes.

He melted into the sheets, and she curled up next to him like a cat, pulling one heavy arm around her shoulders and sighing into his chest.

_Maker but he loved her_. If that wasn't evident by the way he begged her to give him release then he didn't know what would show her. Nothing had ever felt so good, _he_ had never felt so good, sexually or in other ways, and having her nuzzling into him and cuddling him despite how very sweaty and sticky they both were, he felt rather lucky.

"... Thank you," and he meant it; she could have stopped the evening there and then, but she chose not to. She chose to work him to that brink and the image, the _sensations, _they would be forever seared across his memory.

She chuckled, "I should be thanking _you_. Maker what brought this on? I feel like I should do it more often if this is the kind of thing I can expect from you,"

As he laughed, he felt that familiar swell in his chest as he thought about how just being around her caused him to feel so... _blessed_. Post-sex aside, it felt good to know she was by his side, and he was under no illusions of the chance, circumstance and that little bit of bravery that brought them together after so long.

"... I think all of Skyhold may have heard us," she said after some time, tracing circles with her fingertips on his chest, "there may be some uncomfortable glances in the morning,"

Cullen snorted, jostling her with his arm, "Heard _you_ perhaps,"

"Ah! If only you knew how very vocal you are, _Commander_,"

He turned in, pulling her into him so that their foreheads touched, wrapping his arm around her waist, "Let them hear, then," he said, kissing her between her stifled sniggers.

"What is this? A breach in decorum? I won't be able to look your soldiers in the eye come sun-up,"

"Considering the way you were yelling my name, I doubt I will either," he shot back, smirking, leaning up on one arm and looming over her, "but it was worth it, even if I will get funny looks in the morning I won't be able to stop thinking about _this. _So let them stare, as long as they know it was _us_ up here,"

"I don't think that was ever in doubt," she said, grinning, and his heart skipped a few beats at how incredibly pretty she looked under him, her hair messy and her cheeks pink, those eyes glittering with all that warmth that he never saw her fix on anyone else.

Not even her closest.

He would be perfectly happy being by her side, being her sword and making love to her every night for the rest of his life, and the pleasant ease that the thought brought him must have shown in his face, because she reached up to cup his cheek, her mouth quirking and her eyes shining fondly.

Who else could he really share this with but her? Who could he really trust, with her magic on his body or with his heart in her hands, who would really reciprocate in such a way that she would? Without the guilt that edged into his infatuation in the Tower and without the fear that she didn't feel the same, he felt himself really open up in a way he'd never had with anyone, and he felt so lucky to have her there with him, naked, in his bed, looking up at him with eyes that were so warm and loving that he decided, all too rightly, that he never wanted to leave their gaze at all.

He wanted to be the one who stood beside her, through thick and thin, because seeing her out there with her men and knowing her story and _knowing_ the kind of woman she was, even if he wasn't in _love_ with her he would have gladly followed her into the abyss with the rest of the Wardens, if their cause was righteous enough.

And she saved his life – if his prowess as a warrior by her side, her protector and her lover could repay her for the kindness and love she'd shown him ten years ago, as she was showing him now, he would pay that debt ten times over in every lifetime.

Cullen loved her, wanted to be with her, wherever she needed to go, wanted to protect her and stand with her, protecting the people of Thedas, holding each other through the night.

It could ave been an entirely romantic notion, but it was something he'd considered quite carefully and just as she admitted to being selfish by choosing a relationship with him, so too was he by choosing to stay with her.

"Are you alright?" She asked, her thumb brushing across the high curve of his cheekbone, fingers idly pushing a curl of his hair away from his forehead, "You look like you want to say something,"

He did. He'd thought about it long and hard, and even though he felt the notion selfish on his part, to abandon the Inquisition after all they had done for him, he couldn't deny the simple truth. He _loved_ Constance. He wanted to _be_ with her. For the rest of his _life_. All the letter-writing and the glances and the barely choked-back words of things left unsaid between them – it all brought him here, to having the woman of his dreams in his arms and looking at him like she loved him more than she could say.

He looked down into her too deep eyes, and was lost in their clarity as he hoarsely demanded; "... _Conscript me_,"

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading.

If you could have been a fly on the wall for my conversation with my bf about what oral on a man feels like. It did not end up being nearly as sexy as he was envisioning the conversation to go. Poor guy.


	29. Chapter 29

Constance's eyes, still warm and fixed on him, narrowed slightly as she shook her head. She shifted a little on the bed, her mouth twisting into a disbelieving frown, "... What?"

Cullen wasn't foolish enough to think she had misheard him, but he was aware that two words of such a demand, with no prior discussion was perhaps not enough of an explanation, so he elaborated with that same tone, hushed and serious; "I want you to conscript me. Into the Wardens. I want to fight at your side,"

In those too deep, unfathomable eyes, he watched as the understanding broke over her face slowly, and began to feel dizzy when her brows drew down like she still didn't _believe_, and shook her head again, her usually soft voice taking on a dangerous edge, "You can't be serious..."

"I am," he insisted "and why wouldn't I be?"

Why wouldn't he want to be at her side, the side of the woman he loved, even if that meant conscription? He wondered why she was looking at him like that, like he was a petulant child demanding the impossible instead of a man telling her that he wanted to be next to her, always, in her bed and in the heat of battle.

"You want to be conscripted? Into the _Wardens_," She said the word like there was something wrong with it, "Why?"

_Why?_ He thought incredulously, _because I love you! Is that not reason enough?!_ But, with a sinking feeling in his gut he realized he'd never outright said he did, never told her the words sticking to the roof of his mouth, rooting in the end of his chest and stomach when he thought about her. He... never felt he had to.

And Constance was a very practical woman, realistic and tactical. Was _love_ even enough of a reason for her?

She didn't let him speak, "Cullen, the Inquisition needs you, this is your _home_,"

He wanted to scoff, _I have no home_, but the words wouldn't come out because he didn't want to hurt her like that, not with his derision. The realization of her accepting that soon she would be leaving – and thinking he would be staying - _that_ settled over him in a haze of incredible disappointment, and through all the reciprocation and exchange of warmth, to think that perhaps she didn't feel the same as he did, that she was only too happy to bid him goodbye at the end...

It hurt worse than any blade.

"Did you think," he started, "that you would leave for Adamant after your dealings here were finished, and that I would simply, what... stay behind?" He gestured around the room, "After all _this?_"

After sharing his bed with her, after everything they admitted to each other first with letters, and then in person? Did she truly think she could walk away and he would be _accepting_ of that?

Was he just a lovesick fool who misinterpreted the situation?

_No, it couldn't be_, he thought vehemently. He shared too much of himself for it to all be for nothing, or just a mistake-

"Yes," she met his angry stare with a level one, and that mask of _Command_ fixed on her face though he could see through the cracks in it, "you _know_ what kind of work being a Warden entails. Do you really want to fight the Darkspawn? Do you really want to spend weeks, months in the Deep Roads hunting Broodmothers, or spend even more nights plagued with nightmares about tunnelling monsters clawing in the darkness?"

"If it means being by your side, then _yes_," and he meant it, even if it came out as harsh and angry because she looked at him like he didn't know what he was saying, like the words weren't real – sweet nothings passed between lovers after sex, as if he'd ever had the gall to be so disingenuous.

And she turned away; he felt like she'd slapped him, "Cullen, you do not know what you're asking. There are reasons why I am looking for a cure for the Taint, and I would not want to subject anyone else to this life, least of all _you_. I conscript out of necessity; for our dwindling numbers and thinning ranks, but I do not _want_ to put more people to the killing floor just because there is a chance that they will live as one of us,"

When she looked back at him he could see the sadness in her face, like it was killing her to say it but she was saying it anyway, "You are safe here, and I would have that no other way,"

Not a mistake then, just different views on what constituted how their relationship was progressing, just a... breakdown of communication.

He didn't want to stay in the "safety" of Skyhold. He didn't want to stare out into the Frostbacks and pine and wonder when he would next see the woman he loved. He didn't want to receive a letter detailing her death and be so far removed from her life that he couldn't even have the courtesy of being beside her in her fall, or falling himself to protect her

After _everything_, after falling in love with her in the Tower when he was young and foolish, and carrying that flame still small, but still _there_, only to have her fall back into his life with open arms – he would not resign himself to a life where she wasn't in it any longer.

Cullen had been bereft of any sort of pleasure or fulfilment of selfish desires for his entire life, and he was not about to let one of the few good things he had escape his grasp.

He would not sit idle under the guide of safety while she faced death and ruin every day, not while he could still carry a sword, not while he still had his mind. The Inquisition would carry on regardless if he left or stayed; his role was inconsequential as the role of every soldier was in the grand scheme of things.

But with Constance, he could keep her _safe_.

"Wait-" she tried to reach out to him as he got up off the bed, but her hand never got to him. He located his trousers somewhere on the floor and pulled them on haphazardly. Constance clutched the sheets up to her chest and sat up, looking lost as that commanding mask of hers cracked and her face crumpled like it did after she was finished speaking with Morrigan.

"Don't go," she choked out as he made his way to the ladder and started descending it, and she started scrambling to get up off the bed, "Cullen, _please_,"

_No_. She didn't believe him, so he would just have to make it clearer to her that _this_ was his intent, it was not some daydream that passed him by, that he thought it would sound like something she wanted to hear, and he knew very well what he was getting himself into when he made his demand.

The office was cold and some of the candles had burned out, the only few that remained were the ones that had burned so low they barely flickered at all, but the light was enough. Enough for him to find where he was going, touching down onto the stone and striding across the office with purpose. Constance was a bare few seconds behind him, who clearly didn't have the patience to locate and put-on her clothes and instead was swimming in his shirt that nearly reached her knees.

_There_, right where he left it; he pulled his sword up by the handle from where it rested against the mannequin, and in his peripheral vision he could see her stilling on the bottom rung of the ladder, hands clutching the rough wood trying to find some purchase there.

"What-"

He unsheathed it; the blade gleamed in the dim light, nicked and stained occasionally from battle but he kept it sharp and as clean as he could. Templars learned early not to get attached to blades; they could break or become dull, or get taken away in battle. Even the most pristine and beautiful Templar swords held by the highest commanding officials were no different from the standard issue ones the recruits were given. They were a tool, nothing more; just as a fist was and just as a shield was, and his sword was no different. He'd gone through 3 different ones since he took the mantle of Commander and they were all the same; longswords with no titles, rounded pommels and sturdy hafts as he preferred.

The sword had no real significance to him other than it being an extension of who he was at his core; a _warrior_, and a good one at that.

And that sword was hers if she would have it.

It was a proposal of a sort, as he got down on one knee in front of her with the flat on the blade in one hand and the handle resting in the other, offering it instead of holding it, although he doubted she wanted an exchange of Lover's Knots or a ring to signify that he was deadly serious about being with her and only her.

As a Warden Commander she had no need for rings or Knots; he knew that when first approaching such a relationship with her there would be no settling down in a house in the country, no children or land or titles, spending the rest of their days growing old together. They were warriors who fought for Thedas, and even if fighting for the rest of his life wasn't ideal he would gladly live the rest of it bloody and violent if it meant his time would be with _her_. So he bent his knee.

It certainly wouldn't be the first time she brought him to his knees.

She gasped, stopping her tentative inching towards him as he bent in front of her, his knee on the floor, her hand going up to her mouth, "Cullen, _don't_-"

"I swear on my faith to the Maker and all under him, as an Ex-Templar of the Order and the Commander of the Forces of the Inquisition that I pledge myself to your service-"

"_Stop_-"

"-for as long as I am able to carry a sword and shield, they will be raised only in your defence and at your command. As long as I am willing and able, I will fight at your side and protect you and your kin, pursue what wishes you have of me and provide all aid and relief that I can, for as long as you have use of it,"

It was a spin on the lengthy vows they took as Templars, the rough gist with a twist of swearing loyalty and fealty to her instead of the Order, and judging by her face she finally understood the gravity of it. He was not the sort of man who bent his knee to everyone, and when he made a promise he always kept it, when he pledged himself to a cause he did so with everything he had in him.

Constance was cupping her hands over her mouth, her feet awkward and twisting on the rug, the long sleeves of his shirt ruffling at her wrists and making her look so small, even from being on one knee in front of her, and she looked every bit the awkward, sweet girl he remembered from the Tower years ago.

"You were unsure of my intent," he continued, looking up into shining blue eyes, "now you have it. Con, I am _serious_. I am not going to stay here when I could be by your side, at your back, on the battlefield, in your bed - wherever you have need of me,"

She sobbed, "_You'll die!_"

As she dropped to her knees in front of him, she took the sword by its handle and hefted it from his hands, dropping it to the floor between them. Were she not the woman he loved, tears streaking down her face, the action would have been a very vulgar denial of his pledge and honour, yet she took his shoulders and tried to shake him as if that would make her words get through that much better, ignoring the sword on the ground like it was so inconsequential-

"I am _not_ losing you to the Joining, Cullen," she said, "I _can't_. This will be the most selfish thing I have ever done, but I cannot accept your plea. You deserve better than what I – th-than what the Wardens can give you. If you undergo the Joining ritual you could die, and I will not have it,"

She continued, "It is not a vigil like the ones you hold to become a Templar or a Seeker, it kills more people than it connects to the Blight. Only the strongest survive, and even though I know you would be the perfect candidate, at the perfect time – you're wilful and smart, and I would be a fool to turn down a tactician in such a dire time, I am too selfish. I can't, Cullen, I _can't_ lose you to the Taint,"

"Then don't," he insisted as she grimaced through the tears, holding her arms by the elbows, her fingers digging into the bare skin of his shoulders, "I make this pledge to _you_, not the Wardens. If you won't conscript me at least allow me to be by your side-"

Her fingers squeezed, "But _why?_ Here you are safe - with me you could be killed-"

"Because _I love you_," he hissed, his hands roughly cupping her face, "... and I don't want to be away from you when I _know_ I can protect you,"

Her lower lip was trembling, and it took a long time for her to consider what he'd said, something more honest and believing breaking through, "I... I can't offer you a normal life. I'll never be able to leave the Wardens – I would never want to abandon this cause,"

"I do not want a normal life, Con,"

"I'll never be able to stop having these nightmares, I'll never..." she swallowed, "I'll never have your children,"

"I don't care,"

"You _should_,"

"I don't," he insisted, "if I wanted the ideal, I would never have allowed myself to fall in love with you. Do you think I planned to have an easy life after choosing to join the Order? Or the Inquisition, for that matter?"

"There is more,"

"I'm willing to listen, but my answer will remain the same I assure you,"

He watched her look at the floor, and he leaned in until their foreheads rested against each other because the lack of closeness from her was killing him, the lack of anything but _refusal_ from her was killing him. _Maker_ how, _how_ did it all go so wrong so quickly?

Clearing her throat and sniffling as more and more tears fell, she eventually continued, and he had to strain to hear her, "... I... I am not long left for this world, Cullen. The Taint in me, in-in all Wardens... eventually, it poisons us. I have been looking for a cure but if I cannot find one in time, if I _cannot_... I... only have another ten, perhaps fifteen years at the most, before I have to bid everyone farewell and go to the Deep Roads to die in battle. Do you truly wish to live like this? With me? Knowing our time will be so short?"

He wasn't surprised, not truly, not because he was expecting it but because he didn't feel in any way shocked, he just _ached_ for her in ways he couldn't put to words. It was no wonder the Wardens seemed so dour, or that Nathaniel left out that part of Constance's side-effects when they were speaking on the battlements. To know their lives were so short...

It was selfish of her to want someone to love, knowing she was going to die so soon, even if ten or fifteen years seemed such a long way off, those decades had habits of creeping up on people. But even if it was selfish, even if ultimately her love had doomed him to a short life with her he failed to see a fault in it when it fulfilled him in so many nameless ways. She could not brush it off and leave, pretend she hadn't completely wrested him in ways he'd never felt because the loss would end him faster than her apparently short life would.

He could go on living without her, to be sure, but it would be a half-life; one with no purpose or fulfilment that she gave him, empty without her presence in it. The sacrifice, the toiling, it would be worth it to soothe the ache in her, to be able to wake up to her every morning and to be the last thing he saw before he slept however roughly.

Cullen didn't _want_ to die, but for her, if she could be that last thing on his mind, in his heart before he fell it would be enough.

"Con, I will follow you, wherever you go," he brushed his thumbs through the tracks of tears on her cheeks, "even if that means into the Deep Roads to die at your side,"

She choked through the sob, cupping the back of his neck and shaking her head, "I can't ask you to do that-"

"You're not asking; I'm telling you this is how it will be,"

Then she was laughing, laughing and _crying_; "_Maker_ but you are a stubborn mule. Leliana was right about you,"

What the Spymaster said about him he wasn't privy to, and he didn't particularly want to know what they were gossiping about when his back was turned, he just knew that he was fairly certain he had convinced her to accept his pledge, as she continued that half-laugh half-cry because she was so _overcome_, overwrought, so guilty to want more and afraid to take it.

Constance kissed his cheek, then his chin, "I love you," she said, kissing his forehead, across his nose, to the other cheek, "I love you. I _love_ you, _Maker_ I love you," and on and on until her frantic kissing and leaning into him made them tumble back onto the dusty red rug, and she straddled his hips to keep kissing his face and ears and neck and lips until he felt himself burning a little, warm under her touches and tears and barely stifled laughs. They manoeuvred the sword out from under his knees with some difficulty, some sniggers and snorts and more kissing like they were becoming a commodity.

There was no building swell of what he'd come to call his love for her, just a low, easy calm that settled over him like waves lapping at beach, as she kissed him all over and he kissed back with as much as fervour as he could afford without establishing a dominance.

The floor of his office – his _unlocked_ office he was quick to remind himself, was not the place for such things, when anyone could just walk in and get a good eyeful of the Warden Commander, naked from the waist down, on top of him and planting kisses all over his face – but he failed to adequately care when he took her waist in his hands, leaned up and she followed as he pulled his shirt up, over her head and then she was naked again.

They would see them together and he would not care; _let them_, he thought. Let them see her claim him and know that it was their mistake to assume the office unoccupied, that they would not be together.

Cold stone and the rough rasp of the carpet was irritating against his bare back, but it was another thing he failed to care about as they worked together to pull his trousers down, and with a shuddering groan he arched as she took him, _all of him_, leaning up with hands on his chest and stomach and sinking onto his cock like she belonged there.

With heavily-lidded eyes and that – _strange, serene calm_ – he looked up at the woman he loved lost in the pleasure of their coupling, and moved her hips with his hands as he rolled himself into her, over and over, head tipping back when the pleasure got too great for him to keep his gaze on her.

It was rushed, hurried, _unbelievably intimate_, without restraint or care for how it looked or felt, a natural, gradual build towards something more than just an orgasm. Even with their earlier exploits he still felt himself travelling towards that rush, and he could see it in her too, in the unrestrained way she moved on him.

They came together, quietly and without any sort of grace, but he watched her as she watched him, open-mouthed and released from whatever was holding them back before, whatever unspoken words between them finally said. She found purchase in his arms through the shaking, whispering more _I love you_'s into his ear as her head rested over his shoulder.

It was only then, when he wrapped his arms around her quaking frame and noticed he was shaking too, that he felt that warm, entirely indulgent feeling of love rippling through him as he thought _I am the luckiest man in Thedas for having this_.

They lay there in the silence; she rolled off him and slung and arm and leg over his chest and hip, and still they failed to care if someone were to knock or walk-in on them naked on the dusty rug on the floor to Cullen's office. Their conversation had been too draining and too important for that.

"... You will have to tell the Inquisitor soon," Constance eventually said, tracing the tip of her index finger around the faded scar on his sternum, "if you still wish to keep your pledge."

"I do," he replied easily, taking her hand, "and I will. Perhaps first we can get up off the cold floor before we both catch a cold...?"

"Wonderful idea, although the circumstances were rather worth it..."

Cullen chuckled, waiting for her to tiredly extricate herself from being so wrapped around him and he rose to his feet, pulling her up and flush against him.

_Maker_ but he would never tire of the feeling of her naked skin on his, he thought as he kissed her softly, giving her arse a quick slap as she turned towards the ladder. He puffed out what was left of the candles and followed after her, and they slept for what Cullen felt was one of the most restful, peaceful sleeps he'd had in years.

The terrifying thought of telling the Inquisitor his decision was pushed to the side for perusal in the morning, and he gathered the woman he loved into his arms and kissed the top of her head, feeling like things were beginning, _finally_, for him in ways he'd always dreamed.

Others would disagree, and he would even be inclined to agree with some of them in some ways, but having her in his arms after such a long time, truly accepting him as her lover, was enough.

* * *

_Mia,_

_As I said, I will do my best to try and make it to South Reach when I can. Perhaps that will be sooner than later – I have not taken any time for personal affairs since before Kirkwall, after all._

_I do know of the Hero of Ferelden - she **does** have a name, you know. Her name is Constance Amell; did I ever tell you she was a Mage in Kinloch Hold before she was recruited into the Wardens?_

_Constance is an incredible woman, worthy of her title as Ferelden's Hero and more. It is unsurprising that so many of our soldiers speak of her; she is certainly inspiring, to say the least. Her visit has upended many of the day-to-day routines in Skyhold but it is ultimately for the better, especially as she now commands our Warden allies from what was left at Adamant._

_I will pass on your compliments,_

_Please give my love to our siblings, regardless of who they apparently do or do not love more._

_\- Cullen _


End file.
